by M C Beaton
Suddenly it seemed as if Daviot could not wait to be rid of them.
“So our master and chief was taking freebies,” said Hamish as they walked down the stairs.
“Think so?”
“Aye, and he’ll spread the word around the lodge. I think Murdo will find that his best customers suddenly don’t want any presents at all.”
“What about going to see Jessie?”
“I’ve still got Cyril’s murder to solve. You can go yourself.”
Hamish downloaded Jessie’s address from a police computer. She had only been charged once, and that had been for drunk and disorderly. Nothing about drugs.
He met Constable Annie Williams on the road out. He showed her Jessie’s address. “Do you know where this is?”
“Aye, went on a raid there once. It’s a brothel. Just before you leave Strathbane on the Oban road, turn left down Glebe Street and it’s the villa at the end. Fancy dinner tonight?”
Hamish had once had a one-night stand with Annie, only to find out the next day that she was married. “Things to do, people to see,” he said, brushing past her.
He found the villa, wondering why the brothel had not been closed down, and then realised whoever ran it was probably paying the police to be left alone.
He rang the bell. The door was opened by a small, grey-haired, sour-looking woman. Her face hardened when she saw him. “I’m not paying any mair,” she said.
Hamish hesitated for a moment. Should he demand to know which corrupt police or policemen were demanding money to leave her alone? Then he thought of the endless reports and investigations. Another time, he decided.
Aloud, he said, “I just wanted a wee word wi’ Jessie McTavish.”
“She’s left. Gone tae live wi’ a car salesman.”
Hamish touched his cap, said, “Thank you,” and turned to go.
“Wait!” she called. “You seem like a nice lad. Like a bit o’ something?”
“Forget it.” Hamish got into the Land Rover and drove off. Now for Johnny Livia. He stopped at the end of the street and fished out a battered copy of the Highlands and Islands telephone book. There was a private address for Johnny Livia on the other side of Strathbane.
Johnny Livia’s home turned out to be fake Georgian. It had once been a Victorian villa, but he had put a pillared entrance on the front. There was a short drive leading to the house, lined on either side with laurel bushes.
Hamish rang the bell, which tinkled out a chorus of “Scotland the Brave.” The door was jerked open and Jessie McTavish glared up at him. Her bleached hair was tousled, and she was wrapped in a silk dressing gown.
“Whit now?” she demanded. “I ain’t done nothing.”
“Just a talk,” said Hamish.
“Go away!”
“I can stand out here and shout,” said Hamish. He bellowed, “I want to ask you about drugs!”
“Come in, for God’s sake,” said Jessie.
The living room into which she led him looked as if it had been little used. It was crammed with reproduction Louis Quinze furniture, gilt-framed mirrors, and a white-leather-padded bar.
“I have naethin’ tae dae wi’ drugs,” said Jessie fishing in the pocket of her dressing gown and producing a packet of cigarettes.
“I just wanted to ask you what the maître d’ gave you last night when he brought that small silver salver over to your table?”
A phone beside Jessie on a small table rang shrilly. She picked it up and listened and then said, “Aye, right,” and rang off.
“You was asking about last night?” said Jessie. She lit a cigarette and puffed a cloud of smoke in Hamish’s direction. “That was some sweeties I’m partial to.”
“Why put them in your handbag and go to the toilet?”
“I had tae pee. Right? Now if that’s all you want…”
“I’ll be watching you from now on,” said Hamish.
She rose to escort him to the door. Just as he was going to leave, Hamish turned suddenly and thrust up a sleeve of her dressing gown.
“Those are track marks, Jessie.”
“I’m clean!”
“Those are fresh. You are playing a dangerous game, whatever you’ve got yourself into.”
Her eyes blazed with anger. “They’ll sort you out, copper. I’ve got powerful friends.”
“I’ll be back with a search warrant.”
Jessie slammed the door on him. Once inside, she rushed to the phone, dialled a number, and spoke rapidly.
Hamish phoned Jimmy and reported on his visit. “I can’t see us getting a search warrant because some brass nail has fresh tracks on her arms,” said Jimmy. “If we got search warrants for every prostitute in Strathbane wi’ track marks, we’d never get through the work. Get back over to Sandybeach and search around again.”
When Hamish returned to the police station, Dick said, “Nothing on Murdo, but that manager owns a club in Strathbane.”
“Now, that’s odd,” said Hamish. “If he owns a club in Strathbane, what’s he doing managing a restaurant? What’s the club called?”
“Queen Draggie.”
“A drag club! I suppose you can find everything in Strathbane if you lift enough stones. We’ll try it later. I’ve got to go back up to Sandybeach.”
“I’ll keep on looking,” said Dick, hoping for a lazy day.
“All right. I’ll leave you to look after Sonsie and Lugs.”
Hamish called in at the Tommel Castle Hotel, where he found Priscilla in the gift shop. He told her what he had found out so far.
“I don’t like this,” said Priscilla. “I think you might be in danger.”
“If they killed Cyril, they won’t want to bump off another policeman. I might try visiting that drag club.”
“I’ll come with you.”
“It might be dangerous.”
“We could just suss out the place.”
“All right. I’ll pick you up at nine o’clock this evening. Might take Dick as well. The very sight of us might shake something loose.”
Hamish felt he had spent a wasted day by the time he returned to the police station. Dick looked sulky at the idea of the visit to the drag club.
They got dressed in smart casual clothes and collected Priscilla from the Tommel Castle Hotel. She was wearing a sequinned top over tight black velvet trousers. She wrapped herself in a scarlet mohair stole.
“We’ll take my car,” she said.
“No, we’d better use Dick’s old banger. This club is down at the docks and your Mercedes might get stolen,” said Hamish.
As they drove off through the darkness of the Highlands and then looked down on the orange sodium glow that was Strathbane, Hamish said, “Every time I approach the place, I wonder that such a hell can exist in the beauty of the Highlands.”
Dick at the wheel made his way to the docks, now largely in rusting ruins. Facing the oily waterfront where a discarded sofa bobbed on the water, the neon sign above the club flashed on and off in the darkness.
The entry fee was ten pounds each. A man dressed as a bunny girl led them to a table. Hamish looked around. The club seemed to be ignoring the smoking ban. There was a small stage where a man in drag was performing “Hello Dolly” in a thick Glasgow accent.
“None of them even looks like a woman,” said Priscilla as another drag queen came on the stage. He was squat and hairy.
“Should have at least shaved his chest,” said Dick.
The audience was mostly made up of young people, the feral youth of Strathbane.
The “bunny girl” approached their table carrying a bottle of champagne in an ice bucket. “On the hoose, darlings,” she said.
“No freebies,” said Hamish curtly. “Take it away and bring us…?”
“Beer,” said Dick.
“Lager,” said Priscilla.
“And I’ll have a tonic water,” said Hamish.
He shrugged and teetered off on his stilettos.
“We’ve been spot
ted,” said Hamish. “If there’s any drug dealing going on, they’ll wait until we leave.”
“Got to go to the ladies’ room,” said Priscilla. She edged her way through the tables to where a sign for the toilets was lit up over a side door.
Three girls were huddled in a corner. She heard one say in a low voice, “We cannae get anything the night.”
Priscilla had sharp ears. She heard another one whisper, “If ye want anything, you’re to go out the back door.”
Priscilla quickly pretended to repair her make-up and hurried back to their table.
“The drugs are being dealt at the back door,” she said.
“I don’t want anyone to see me making a phone call,” said Hamish.
Their drinks arrived. “That’ll be thirty-five quid,” said the waitress.
“That’s too much,” said Hamish.
“Pay it or get out.”
“I’ve got money in the car,” said Hamish. “I’ll be right back. Give me the keys, Dick.”
He hurriedly left the club. Outside, he got into Dick’s car, bent down as if looking for something, and made a call to Jimmy. “I’m at the Queen Draggie club. They’re dealing drugs at the back door. Raid the bloody place.”
He returned to the club where the “bunny girl” was hovering beside their table, took out his wallet, and paid him. He shoved the money in his bra and went off.
After twenty minutes, when Hamish was just beginning to think the police would never arrive, he heard a loud altercation and then the club seemed to be full of police. People were scrambling to get out and finding their way blocked.
“Aren’t we going to join in?” asked Dick.
“There are enough of them. It wouldn’t be a good idea to leave Priscilla.”
The music had died. They watched as the customers were searched. Police were dropping packets of pills and little glassine envelopes into forensic bags.
At last, Jimmy came up to them. “Good work, Hamish. What put you on to it?”
“The manager of the Seven Steps owns this club. What is Murdo Bentley doing with a manager who owns a club that deals drugs? And why is Bruce working as a manager when he owns a club?”
“We’ll be looking into that. Type up a statement and send it over.”
On the road home, Hamish said happily, “Well, that’s got the ball rolling. What if Cyril was the tip-off?”
“Could ha’ been,” said Dick. “But why bump him off?”
“Maybe he was caught selling their drugs on the side,” said Hamish. “Like to come in for a nightcap, Priscilla?”
“No thanks. Just drop me off at the hotel.”
Hamish uncurled himself from the backseat of Dick’s little car when they arrived at the police station. The large flap on the station door banged open and Lugs erupted out, barking shrilly. He was followed by Sonsie, whose fur was raised and whose eyes were blazing.
“There, now,” said Hamish. “What’s up?”
Lugs ran to the front garden and continued barking.
Dick and Hamish opened the little side gate to the garden. Hamish took out a torch and shone it.
The body of Jessie McTavish lay on the grass, her dead eyes staring up at the Sutherland sky.
Chapter Five
Every harlot was a virgin once.
—William Blake
Hamish sat hunched at the kitchen table during that long night. He had answered question after question. First there was Blair, shouting and bullying and stopping just short of accusing him of the murder. Then Jimmy and Detective Andy McNab with more questions.
Hamish explained over and over again that he had questioned her about what she had received from the maître d’ in the restaurant. She had insisted it was sweets. That was all. He had not seen her since. He had been up around Sandybeach questioning people who lived on the road there, and he had gone to the drag club.
Then they would switch from grilling him and turn their attention to Dick.
At last Daviot arrived on the scene and sent the detectives outside. He sat down heavily opposite Hamish and Dick and said wearily, “This is a bad, bad business, but you’re in the clear. Forensics and the pathologist have found that she was killed some time earlier with a savage blow to the head. The body was then driven to Lochdubh and thrust over the hedge into your front garden. There are breaks in the hedge showing where the body caught parts of it before being shoved in.”
“It’s all tied up to drugs somehow. How did the raid on the club go?” asked Hamish.
“Drugs were found in the manager’s office. Bruce Jamieson has been arrested.”
“And what did Murdo Bentley say about his restaurant manager being a drug peddler?”
“He is deeply shocked. He swears he was unaware that Jamieson even owned a club.”
“Oh, sir, that’s hard to believe.”
“Murdo Bentley has long been an outstanding member of the community. He contributes regularly to various charities, including the police widows’ and orphans’ pension fund. Good heavens, Macbeth, he even had a new wing of Strathbane hospital built.”
“What about Paolo Gonzales, the maître d’? Does he have any sort of record?”
“Nothing at all. Not even a parking ticket.”
“And Johnny Livia, the car dealer she was living with?”
“Alibied up to the hilt. Down at a sales conference in Glasgow.”
“But Murdo Bentley will surely be watched and investigated from now on.”
Daviot rose to his feet. “Leave it with me.”
Which means, thought Hamish savagely as the kitchen door closed behind the superintendent, that nothing will be done at all.
In Glasgow, news presenter Elspeth Grant heard about the body in Hamish’s garden. She wondered if she would be sent there to report because of her friendship with Hamish. But as she studied film of the scene on the waterfront at Lochdubh, she suddenly saw Hamish talking to Priscilla. Elspeth had been briefly engaged to Hamish but had broken it off because she had found he was spending time with Priscilla. She was suddenly determined not to go, even if ordered to do so.
“I really have to get back to my job in London, Hamish,” Priscilla said as they stood outside the station watching Daviot give a press conference.
“I think I’ll go fishing,” said Hamish, “and by the time I get back, with any luck the press will have gone.”
“Why on earth did they dump her body in your garden?” asked Priscilla. “I mean, the murder of a prostitute would only merit a few lines in the press. But the body of a prostitute in a policeman’s garden is big news.”
“It’s a warning to me,” said Hamish. “They want me to know they are all-powerful and that I could be next.”
“Just be careful,” said Priscilla.
“Would you miss me if I were dead?” asked Hamish.
“Really, Hamish!” said Priscilla. “It’s not like you to stoop to emotional blackmail. Bye.”
Hamish scowled after her. “Bitch,” he muttered.
“Who’s a bitch?” asked a voice behind him.
Hamish swung round and found Angela Brodie behind him.
“Life in general,” said Hamish. “How are things?”
“Not exactly pleasant. I spent an awful lot of money on a gown for the awards ceremony and my husband is sulking. It’s my money, I told him.”
“Doesn’t sound at all like your man. How much did you pay?”
“Nearly two thousand pounds.”
“Michty me! Is it gold-plated?”
“No, I got it made in Inverness.”
“I know Inverness is a boomtown these days, but I didn’t think it would have a place with that sort of price.”
“It’s called Modes, and you can buy or get something made. The place I first thought of didn’t have much.”
“I didn’t know you and Dr. Brodie ever quarrelled about anything.”
“We hardly ever do. Could you have a word with him, Hamish? I’ve got a feeling it’s s
omething other than money.”
“Is he in the surgery?”
“He’s at home at the moment. I don’t know what’s come over him. I’ve never known him to be mean about money before.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
Hamish’s insatiable highland curiosity was pricked. He found Dr. Brodie in his kitchen, drinking coffee and reading a newspaper.
“What’s brought you?” asked Dr. Brodie. “Coffee?”
“No thanks.”
“It’s not Angela’s. I got a flask from Patel. He’s started to sell hot coffee.”
“Well, in that case…” Hamish poured a mug of coffee and sat down at the table.
“It’s like this,” he said. “Your wife is right upset because you’ve turned nasty about her dress.”
“Did she tell you how much it cost?”
“Aye. But she’s fair excited about this award.”
“Did she tell you she’s got a new publisher for this detective story?”
“No. She did tell me she’d written it under another name.”
“Her editor was up here a while back,” said the doctor moodily.
“So?”
“He looks like Tom Cruise. They went off together to Strathbane for lunch and she didn’t come back until the evening. She was all giggles. His name is Charles Davenport. Twice during the night since then, she’s said ‘Charles’ in her sleep. Then she shot off to pay a fortune for this wretched dress.”
“Why didn’t you tell her you were jealous?”
“Me! Jealous?”
“Yes. You.”
“I was just angry that she was making a damn fool of herself.”
“Come on, man. This is Angela’s big moment and you’re spoiling it for her.”
Dr. Brodie stared down into his coffee mug. “She’s a very attractive woman.”
Hamish thought of Angela with her mild pleasant face and wispy hair. Wish someone could love me as blindly as that, he thought.
