Death of a Policeman

by M C Beaton

  “Did he mention a restaurant called Seven Steps?”

  “He did, I remember. He said he would take me there one evening but he never did.”

  “Did he ever mention the name Murdo Bentley?”

  “No. Now go away. I don’t want to think about it any more.”

  Dick handed over his card. “If you do think of anything, let me know.”

  He winked at Shona as he left, went out, and waited patiently in his car until she finally emerged for her lunchtime break.

  In the café, Dick said, “I’m amazed a bonnie lassie like you isnae married.”

  “I’ve actually been engaged twice,” said Shona, “but I always got cold feet.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “My parents—they’re dead now—were always rowing. Then my father started beating my mother. It was awful. Ma once told me that he was lovely when they got married and then it all fell to bits. I’m frightened that would happen to me.”

  “What you need,” said Dick, “is a nice, steady bloke, maybe a wee bit older. How old are you, Shona, if you don’t mind me asking?”

  “Not a bit. I’m twenty-eight.”

  That’s not bad at all, thought Dick. Twenty-eight’s quite mature.

  “I’m having a party at my place tonight,” said Shona. “Like to come along?”

  “Yes, great. What time?”

  “Eight o’clock.” She took out a card and handed it over. “That’s the address. Hetty will be there and maybe she’ll give you some bit of information she might have forgotten. Why not bring Mr. Macbeth?”

  “I’ll ask him,” said Dick, “but he’s awfy busy.”

  Dick fretted about the invitation to Hamish all the way back to Lochdubh. Women always fancied Hamish, he thought gloomily. But if he did not tell Hamish, then he might come across Shona who would say something like, Sorry you were too busy to come to my party.

  But when he returned to Lochdubh and reluctantly issued the invitation, Hamish only said, “You go. I don’t feel like a party.” He did not want to get Dick involved in what he planned to do.

  As soon as Dick had left that evening, Hamish got into the Land Rover and drove round the end of Lochdubh and into the gloom of the forest on the other side. He drove up into one of the logging trails and parked the Land Rover. Then he settled down to wait.

  After a time, he fell asleep, but he had set an alarm clock next to him for midnight. He woke with a start when the alarm went off. He got down from the Land Rover, lifted the motorbike out of the back, and put on the helmet. He was dressed in black: black sweater and black trousers.

  He roared off over circuitous back paths until he was clear of the village and then set off in the direction of Strathbane. Just short of the Seven Steps restaurant, he dismounted, donned gloves, and lifted a round heavy rock out of the carrier at the back.

  He set off again. When he came level with the plate-glass windows of the restaurant’s dining room, he stopped but kept the engine running. The restaurant was in darkness. He hurled the rock straight through the plate-glass windows and sped off, flying along the roads under the blazing stars above.

  When he got back to the police station, Dick was in the living room. “Some hooligan’s smashed the windows of the Seven Steps restaurant,” he said. “We’re to get ower there right away.”

  “Give me a minute to get my uniform on,” said Hamish.

  Ten minutes later, they set out on the road. “We’ll need to see if we can get a look at the tapes from the CCTV cameras,” said Hamish. “Probably some drunk. How was the party?”

  “Not my thing,” said Dick. “I only went in the hope that when Hetty had had a few, she might come up with a bit more information.”

  “And did she?

  “No,” said Dick curtly.

  Apart from Hetty, the party had consisted of young people of Shona’s age. Dick could just about remember when late twenties was not considered young. Shona, looking pretty in a gold sequinned top and a tiny velvet skirt, had settled him on a sofa and then had brought Hetty over to sit beside him. Hetty had been wearing a blouse with a plunging neckline, revealing a black push-up bra underneath. Her face was like a Japanese Noh mask with heavy make-up.

  Dick estimated that Hetty had already had quite a bit to drink. Obviously she thought herself irresistible. Shona and her friends were all dancing. When Hetty put a hand on his knee, Dick got up abruptly. He had just seen Shona heading for the kitchen. He was about to go in when he heard a girl say, “Thon policeman doesn’t look too happy. Should I ask him for a dance?”

  “No,” came Shona’s voice with dreadful clarity. “Leave the olds to get to know one another. I thought he might be a suitable partner for Hetty.”

  Dick had walked straight out of the house without saying goodbye, that awful word olds ringing in his ears.

  Hamish hoped to get to the restaurant before anyone from Strathbane arrived. He now had an excuse to see the CCTV tapes and hoped he could quickly scan back to earlier in the evening to see if there was any face amongst the customers he recognised. It was a long shot. When he had been there with Priscilla everyone looked respectable.

  The lights were on in the building when they arrived. A squat, swarthy man with a bald head came out to meet them. “I’m the manager, Bruce Jamieson,” he said. “This is awful.”

  “Do you live on the premises?” asked Hamish.

  “Yes, I’ve got a flat upstairs.”

  “I’d like a look at your security cameras,” said Hamish.

  “Come in and I’ll show you where they are.”

  The manager led the way into a small office and switched on the light. “I’ll get you the recent tape,” he said. He switched on the equipment on a large desk. “You can see we’ve got monitors for the dining room, the brasserie, and the bar.”

  “The outside?” asked Hamish.

  “Here you go.”

  Hamish worked the tape backwards. He saw himself roaring up and then speeding off. To his relief, it was not a good shot, more like a blurred image.

  “Let me see the tape of who was in the restaurant tonight,” said Hamish.

  As Hamish slotted in the tape, he could hear approaching sirens. “You’d best go out and talk to them,” he said. “I’ll go on looking.”

  He watched the dining room tape for the previous evening. He studied the faces as the camera panned from table to table. The he uttered an exclamation and hit the freeze button. “See anything?” asked Dick.

  “Superintendent Daviot and his missus,” said Hamish gloomily. He set the tape in motion again.

  “What are you doing?” came Jimmy’s voice from behind him. “You’re supposed to be looking for the man who threw that rock through the window.”

  “I just wanted to see who was in the restaurant earlier.”

  “Why?”

  Hamish swivelled round but could not see the manager. He said in a low voice, “You know why.”

  “This is becoming an obsession,” snapped Jimmy. “Let me see the tape of the man throwing the rock.”

  Hamish changed the tapes. Jimmy studied the motorcyclist. “That’s a fat lot of good,” he said. “This must be an old system. The images aren’t very sharp.”

  “But it’s a motorcyclist again,” said Hamish. “And Cyril was murdered by a motorbiker. Don’t you find that odd?”

  “Murderers don’t go around throwing rocks.”

  “So why did he pick this restaurant? There must be a connection.”

  “Murdo Bentley phoned Daviot and got him out of bed. We’re to treat this as priority. A forensic team are on their way. Start tomorrow and check around and see if any bikes have been stolen. I’ll take over here.”

  Hamish slid the tape of the dining room up under his regulation sweater. He held on to his stomach in case it slipped down. “Got indigestion,” he said, making for the door.

  Dick followed him out.

  Before he got in the Land Rover, Hamish scanned the ground nervously
for tyre tracks, but the expanse of tarmac outside the restaurant was dry. No tracks.

  On the road back, Dick asked, “Why did you steal thon tape? I saw you shoving it up your jumper.”

  “I want to look at it back at the station in peace and quiet.”

  In his living room, Hamish slotted in the tape and he and Dick settled back to watch it. “If Daviot’s getting free meals, that’s certainly going to make life difficult,” said Hamish.

  “Freeze it!” cried Dick.

  “Frozen. What?”

  “Thon’s the provost and his missus. Michty me!”

  “Let’s just go in for wild speculation,” said Hamish. “Let say Murdo is a criminal. What better security to have than to entertain the great and good of Strathbane wi’ freebies?”

  “I would ha’ thought you were havering afore,” said Dick. “But thon manager fair gied me the creeps.”

  Hamish started the tape again. “Wait a bit,” he suddenly said. “I’ll go back. Now watch the maître d’ going ower to that table. He’s a different one from the one in the brasserie.”

  Dick watched as the maître d’ approached a heavyset businessman and a blonde woman at a corner table.

  “Freeze!” shouted Dick again. “Thon’s Jessie McTavish, one of the most expensive tarts in town.”

  “Who’s the man with her?”

  “Don’t know.”

  “Well, watch now,” said Hamish, starting up the tape. The maître d’ approached the table with a little silver salver. He tilted open the lid. The man nodded. Jessie opened her capacious handbag, and the contents were tipped in.

  “Back again and freeze,” said Hamish. “Let’s see if we can find what’s under that salver.”

  “Can’t see,” said Dick. “But the man’s sliding him a roll of notes.”

  “Now there’s Jessie getting up,” said Hamish. “Probably going to the loo. Let’s keep watching.” At last he said, “Here she comes again. Would you say she had sniffed something or taken something?”

  “Can’t make it out.”

  “I’m getting back over there to show this tape to Jimmy. I’ll say I took it by accident.”

  “I’m awfy tired,” said Dick.

  “Oh, wait here and I’ll go myself.”

  Hoping that Blair hadn’t turned up, Hamish headed back to the restaurant.

  There was no sign of Blair, but Jimmy was walking up and down outside the taped-off crime scene while the scenes of crime operatives worked the ground.

  “Can you leave here?” asked Hamish.

  “Why?” asked Jimmy.

  “I took a CCTV tape of the dining room by accident.”

  “You what? You can’t do that!”

  “It was a mistake,” pleaded Hamish. “Could you get in there somehow and say you want to see the tapes again and then give the manager a receipt for this one?”

  “Is it that important?”

  “I think so.”

  “Wait there.”

  Jimmy entered the building by walking against the wall so as not to contaminate the crime scene.

  Hamish waited anxiously. Jimmy finally emerged, followed by the manager, Bruce Jamieson, who stared across the car park at Hamish. There was something peculiarly threatening in that stare.

  “Got it,” said Jimmy curtly. “Have you any booze at that station of yours?”

  “Whisky.”

  “Lead the way.”

  Dick was asleep on the sofa with the dog on one side and the cat on the other.

  “Wakey! Wakey!” yelled Jimmy.

  Dick woke with a start and grinned sheepishly. “I’m off to my bed,” he said. “I don’t need to see it again.”

  The dog and cat slid off the sofa and disappeared. Hamish fetched a bottle of whisky and two glasses from the kitchen.

  He switched on the recorder and slotted in the tape. Jimmy sipped whisky and leaned forward. “Who’s the fellow with Jessie?” asked Hamish.

  “Car dealer. Johnny Livia. We raided him once. Tip-off he was shipping stolen cars abroad but we couldn’t find anything.”

  Again the maître d’ appeared with the little salver. “And that’s it?” asked Jimmy. “It isn’t enough to raid the place.”

  “It’s enough to ask the maître d’ what he gave her. Come on, Jimmy. An iffy car dealer and a well-known tart. I’ll do it,” said Hamish. “The restaurant is on my beat.”

  “No, I’ll do it but you can come along. I’ll meet you outside the restaurant at eleven thirty tomorrow morning when they’ll be setting up for lunch. But after us wanting that particular tape, if there is anything going on at the restaurant then they’ll make sure it’s as clean as a whistle for the next month or so anyway.”

  “Coming?” said Hamish to Dick the following morning.

  “Don’t feel like it,” said Dick. “Don’t you sometimes feel worried about getting old?”

  “Not yet,” said Hamish. “But you could do something for me. Could you check on the computer and see if Murdo owns anything else in Strathbane—pubs or clubs, say?”

  “Will do.”

  “Cheer up. It may never happen. Why are you looking so miserable?”

  “I slept badly.”

  “Nothing to do with that party?”

  “No, why should it?” shouted Dick.

  “Keep your hair on. I only asked.”

  While Dick stayed behind to look after the animals and try to find any other businesses that Murdo might own, Hamish set off to meet Jimmy at the restaurant.

  It was one of those steel-grey days in the Highlands. No mist, just a canopy of grey cloud overhead and a strange stillness in the landscape. The mountains looked like steel engravings.

  A little cloud of midges had managed to get inside the Land Rover. Hamish pulled to the side of the road, took out a spray of insect repellent, and sprayed the inside of the car. Then he realised he had forgotten to open a window and was doubled up with a fit of coughing. He wiped his streaming eyes and set off again.

  He parked outside the restaurant and waited until he saw Jimmy driving up before getting out of the Land Rover.

  “What did Blair say?” Hamish asked him.

  “I didn’t tell him. If anyone’s been getting free meals or drinks here, Blair’s bound to be one of them. Let’s get started.”

  The manager, Bruce Jamieson, had little black eyes which shone with an odd light when Jimmy asked to speak to the maître d’ who had been on duty the night before. “That’ll be Paolo Gonzales,” said Bruce. “Only does evenings.”

  “Then give us his address,” said Jimmy.

  “What’s this about?”

  “Just want a wee word with him. Come on, laddie, get that address.”

  They waited a quarter of an hour and were about to go in search for the manager when he reappeared and handed them a slip of paper.

  “Thanks,” said Jimmy. “Come on, Hamish.”

  Outside, Hamish asked, “Where does he live?”

  “Got a wee cottage down the road from here towards Strathbane. Follow me.”

  As Hamish was about to climb into the Land Rover, he turned and looked at the restaurant. Bruce was standing outside, staring at him.

  The cottage turned out to be a low whitewashed building which had once served as a croft house.

  Jimmy hammered on the door, and they waited. At last it was opened by the tall man they recognised from the tape. He had a cadaverous face and pale grey eyes under hooded lids.

  “Mr. Gonzales?” asked Jimmy.

  “That’s me.”

  Jimmy flashed his warrant card. “Just a wee word. Can we come inside?”

  Gonzales shrugged and then stood aside to let them in. The front door led straight into a living-room-cum-kitchen. It was sparsely furnished with a round table and four upright chairs. A battered armchair was placed in front of a large television set. A peat fire smoked in the hearth. Gonzales waved an arm to indicate they should sit at the table.

  “What’s this about?
” he asked. He had a faint Spanish accent.

  “We’ve been checking the videotapes at the restaurant,” said Jimmy. “We are interested in two of your customers, Johnny Livia and Jessie McTavish. You presented Jessie with something under a silver salver. She put the contents in her handbag and then went to the toilet. What did you give her?”

  Gonzales shrugged. “Oh, that? She’s got a sweet tooth. The chef makes special marzipan sweets for her.”

  “Pull the other one,” said Jimmy. “Why would she tip sweets into her handbag?”

  “Only four of them,” said Gonzales blandly, “and they were wrapped in tissue paper.”

  “Have you ever seen anyone dealing drugs in the restaurant?” asked Hamish.

  “I’m shocked you should even ask such a question,” said Gonzales. “Seven Steps is a gourmet restaurant. All the best people come, including Superintendent Daviot and his wife.”

  They persevered with questions but couldn’t get anywhere and at last they left.

  Outside the cottage, Jimmy’s mobile phone rang. He listened and then said, “Right away, sir.”

  He turned to Hamish. “Daviot’s summoned us and he’s furious. Let’s get it over with.”

  “What,” demanded Daviot as soon as they were shown into his office, “do you mean by questioning a respectable waiter from the best restaurant in the Highlands and implying they were dealing drugs?”

  Jimmy patiently told him about the tape.

  “You should have come to me or Mr. Blair first,” raged Daviot. “I eat there myself and I have never seen anything untoward.”

  “I was there myself, sir, last night in the brasserie with Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish. “We were offered a free meal. That in itself is suspicious.”

  Daviot turned pink. “What is so suspicious about a generous offer like that?”

  “Restaurants or bars which offer coppers freebies are often trying to get favours. I mean, if someone as eminent as yourself were to be offered a free meal, of course you would turn it down.”