Hamish sat back on his heels, puzzled. He could well imagine someone wanting to kill Randy. He had humiliated quite a lot of the men, apart from Geordie, with his jeers and threats. Someone blasting his head off in a rage was understandable. But to tie the man up and then kill him! And take every little bit of money and identification from the body!
Hamish at last sent Archie home and waited for the police from Strathbane to arrive. And it was as he waited that he realized that he was in serious trouble. The police would hear about the fight that never took place and his superiors would be furious that a constable should even think about indulging in a public brawl. If he kept his job after this, he would be lucky.
He hoped the bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, was on holiday. Blair loathed Hamish and would be delighted to make trouble for him.
The arrival of Dr Brodie interrupted his gloomy thoughts. ‘I may as well have a look before the police from Strathbane get here,’ said Dr Brodie. ‘I assume he is dead? Oh, my,’ he said, catching sight of the body. ‘There’s no doubt about that. Very dead. Who would have done this, Hamish?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll need to start asking around. I didnae go to the bar much. In fact, I think I wass chust there the once when Randy was there. That was about the beginning of his stay in Lochdubh and he wass buying the drinks all round which made him no end popular. Hear any gossip? Messing with any of the local women?’
‘No, but he was beginning to rile people, or so Angela heard.’ Angela was his wife.
‘You mean, like wee Geordie Mackenzie?’
‘I didn’t hear about him. But there was a nasty fight with Andy MacTavish, the forestry worker.’
‘Well, if that doesn’t beat all,’ said Hamish wrathfully. ‘I neffer heard about that. I am to have a fight with Duggan and the whole village turns out to watch, and yet he has a fight with Andy and nobody hears about it! What happened?’
‘You know Andy always fancied himself as a bit of a strong man. He started needling Randy and Randy fixed to meet him in the churchyard. Beat the living daylights out of Andy, by all accounts.’
‘Is there anything else I ought to know?’ asked Hamish crossly as Brodie knelt down by the body.
‘Hasn’t been dead long,’ murmured Dr Brodie.
‘That could be because the room was like a furnace. Any other gossip?’
‘There was a bit about Archie Maclean.’
‘There cannae be!’
‘Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, heard them shouting at each other down at the harbour late last night. Archie was saying that you would whip Randy and Randy was saying . . .’
‘Oh, go on, man. I can take it.’
‘Randy was saying he could eat chaps like you for breakfast. You were a long drip of nothing. Archie said you were, like Alan Breck, a bonnie fighter, and Randy said what would a little shrimp like him who was henpecked by his wife know about it. Archie was drunk and said, “You’ll live to regret them words . . . if you live.”’
‘Lord! Anything else?’
‘Later. I think the great and the good have arrived from Strathbane.’
Hamish pictured Blair and saw the piggy gleam in Blair’s small eyes. He knew he was in bad trouble. He would try to get Blair to keep quiet about the fight that never took place, but he hadn’t much hope of being able to do that.
* * *
The slow machinery of a murder investigation crawled forward. A mobile unit was set up outside the cottage. Forensic men in white boiler suits crawled over every bit of furniture and carpet. The rope binding Randy’s hands was studied and pronounced, disappointingly, as being of a kind available in hundreds of stores throughout Scotland.
The long night dragged on. Hamish returned to the police station to type up his report. He waited for the axe to fall.
When Blair arrived with his usual sidekicks, detectives Anderson and MacNab, Hamish took one look at the detective chief inspector’s grinning face and knew trouble had arrived.
‘Well, Macbeth,’ jeered Blair, ‘as frae this moment; you’re our number-one suspect.’
‘Do you mind if I have a word with you in private?’
‘Sure, laddie, but it willnae do you any good.’ Blair jerked his head at MacNab and Anderson. ‘Wait outside.’
When the detectives had left, Hamish said flatly, ‘You’ve heard about the fight.’
Blair rubbed his fat hands. ‘Aye, I have that. The whole o’ Strathbane’ll hear about it tomorrow. You’re in deep shit, man.’
‘Look,’ said Hamish desperately, ‘couldn’t you hush it up? I’ve solved cases for you before and let you take the credit. I could . . .’ His voice trailed off as he realized he had said the wrong thing.
Blair’s face was dark with anger. ‘I’ve already phoned Superintendent Peter Daviot, and the other reason I’m here is to tell you, you pillock, that you’re to report to him first thing in the morning. Bang goes your cushy job in Lochdubh. He’ll never keep you in the force after this.’
‘So I’m not even on this investigation?’
‘Ach, man, ye’re aff the force and aff the case.’ Blair’s heavy accent grew more Glaswegian when he was truculent. He turned on his heel and strode out.
Hamish was left to his gloomy thoughts. Why, oh why, had he accepted Randy’s stupid challenge? He could hardly think about the case at all. Randy had been a brag and a bully. No one would mourn. But despite his distress over his own circumstances, another terrible nagging thought about his own behaviour struck him. What kind of policeman was he? Randy had come out of nowhere and he had never bothered to make one inquiry about him. And yet, wasn’t he being too hard on himself? There had been no reason for the law to investigate Randy. Bragging was hardly a crime. Anyway, it didn’t matter any more. He had better think about packing up. Because by the morning, after that interview in Strathbane, he would no longer be in the police force.
* * *
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe heard the news of Hamish’s impending dismissal at breakfast the following morning from one of the maids. Jimmy Anderson, in the course of an interview with Archie Maclean during which Archie had said he would rather talk to Hamish, had let fall that Hamish Macbeth was being summoned to Strathbane and would be dismissed. She, more than anyone, knew what that would mean to Hamish. Some of the villagers might think of Hamish as an unorthodox sort of policeman and a bit of a layabout, but Priscilla knew that despite his laziness and mooching and occasional poaching, he was deeply committed to law and order and that he loved Lochdubh; but if he were dismissed, he would not be able to stay, and despite all their past differences and hurts and upsets, Priscilla knew that Lochdubh would not be the same without him.
She went into the hotel office and phoned Mrs Daviot, the Chief Superintendent’s wife.
After the hellos and how-are-yous had been dispensed with, Priscilla said, ‘I am deeply shocked to learn that Hamish might be dismissed.’
Mrs Daviot’s voice was cautious. ‘Well, Priscilla, I did hear something about thet. A policeman prepared to engage in a highly public brawl is herdly the sort of man to keep on the force.’
The superintendent’s wife’s genteel tones grated, as usual, on Priscilla’s ears, but snobbery had its uses.
‘Such a pity if he goes,’ she said. ‘We’ve always considered him one of us. Lord Farthers was saying to Daddy just the other day, “Hamish is one of us”.’
There was a slight quaver in Mrs Daviot’s voice as she asked, ‘You mean the Earl of Farthers.’
‘Don’t know of any other,’ said Priscilla in a cheerful voice, although she was beginning to feel slightly grubby.
‘We all know our Hamish is a wee bit eccentric,’ ventured Mrs Daviot.
‘But with a tremendous knack of solving murders.’
‘I thought . . . well, how do I put this . . . thet you and Hamish were no longer an item.’
‘Oh, we’re still very close friends.’
There w
as a little silence and then Mrs Daviot said, ‘I might be over your way this afternoon.’
‘And Hamish has an interview with your husband this morning.’ Priscilla let that hang in the air. If this tiresome woman wasn’t going to do anything to help Hamish, then she was not going to waste any more time on her.
‘I could maybe just have a wee word with Peter and then drop over and see you.’
‘How very kind of you,’ said Priscilla, and with a little smile, she put down the phone.
* * *
Hamish sat outside Chief Superintendent Peter Daviot’s office, sunk in gloom. The efficient secretary, Helen, clattered away at the keys of the typewriter and threw him an occasional unsympathetic glance. She did not like Hamish, never had. Police headquarters were buzzing with the news that Hamish Macbeth was finished in the force.
Hamish was mentally turning over in his mind what he should do after his dismissal. He could not think of anything he would rather do than be Lochdubh’s policeman. At last a buzzer sounded on the secretary’s desk. She peered at him over her glasses. ‘You can go in now,’ she said.
Slowly Hamish uncoiled his lanky length and stood up. Peaked cap under his arm, he took a deep breath and opened the door of Mr Daviot’s office.
‘Sit down, Macbeth,’ said Mr Daviot without looking up. Mr Daviot was annoyed. He had been all geared up to firing Hamish and then his wife of all people had phoned in a panic and gabbled something about her social life being ruined if Hamish went. More to the point, she had reminded her husband of all the crimes which Hamish had solved.
At last he looked up. ‘Do you know why you are here, Macbeth?’
‘Yes,’ said Hamish bleakly.
‘Yes, what?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And what have you to say for yourself?’
‘It iss not as bad as it looks,’ said Hamish. ‘I wass not going to fight the man. Not at all. I said I would meet him but so that I could give him a very public dressing down and also caution him against harming anyone in Lochdubh.’
‘But according to Blair, the whole village had turned out and they were even laying bets on the outcome of the fight.’
‘They would hardly have turned out if I had said I was only going to give him a lecture. I wanted as big an audience as possible. You see, sir . . .’ Hamish leaned forward with the intense and honest look his face always assumed when he was lying. ‘Duggan had been bragging and threatening. Now the one thing a man like that cannot bear is a public telling off. Now, sir, haff you ever known me to fight with anyone?’
Mr Daviot looked at Hamish thoughtfully while Hamish prayed that Mr Daviot had never got to hear of any of the times he had been involved in a fight. ‘No-o,’ he conceded. ‘But you must see that by ostensibly engaging in a public fight, you have made yourself prime suspect in a murder inquiry.’
‘Hardly I was at the police station right up until the time I was due to meet Duggan. I was in my office with the blinds up and the lights on. I am sure you already have the reports that I was seen there by any villager who happened to be walking past. I mean, just because I am a policeman does not mean that there should not be evidence gathered to support my innocence.’
Mr Daviot scowled. Blair had submitted no evidence, merely put in a report about the fight.
‘I don’t think there has been time,’ he said.
‘But bringing a charge against me which would mean my dismissal is so serious that no policeman would do that without the correct evidence – unless, of course, he had a personal spite against me.’
‘That’s enough of that,’ snapped Mr Daviot. Blair’s hatred of Hamish was well known. He was now as angry with Blair as he had been with Hamish. He felt that if Blair had wanted to get rid of Hamish, he might at least have tried to do a proper job of it.
‘In fact,’ said Hamish gently, ‘I feel so strongly about it, that if I were dismissed, och, well, there’d be nothing for it but to put in an official complaint. It would mean coping with the press in the middle of a murder inquiry, but I never wass the one to put up with injustice,’ he added piously.
Mr Daviot began to sweat. Hamish looked calm and determined. He did not know that Hamish privately thought he would never get away with this load of rubbish but was determined to go down in flames.
The superintendent could see the police inquiry into Hamish’s dismissal, the questions the press would ask. And Hamish would drum up about twenty villagers to swear blind that he spoke the truth, that all he had really meant was to lecture Duggan. Then Mrs Daviot would go on and on, never forgiving him if the visits to Tommel Castle to see Priscilla Halburton-Smythe were cut off.
He took a deep breath. ‘I will accept your version of events this time, Macbeth. But never, ever let such a thing happen again. Do I make myself clear?’
Hamish felt relief sweeping over him. He could hardly believe he had got away with it. ‘Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.’
‘So be off with you. And when you get to Lochdubh, tell Blair to report to me immediately.’
‘Certainly, sir.’
‘Very good. You’re dismissed.’
Hamish stared at him in alarm.
‘I mean, just go and get back to your job!’
Hamish moved hurriedly to the door. Policemen were lurking in the corridors as he made his way out. He quickly assumed a hangdog expression. He suddenly wanted Blair over in Lochdubh to get the news he was fired so that the carpeting he was due to get from Daviot would be even more bitter.
Once clear of Strathbane, he sang cheerfully the whole way home. It was still raining, with wreaths of mist moving up and down the purple heather-covered flanks of the mountains. It was as he was driving the last long winding stretch down towards Lochdubh that he found his mind turning to the case of Duggan’s murder. For he had been murdered. It would be difficult to ascertain the exact time of death. The murderer had been clever enough to turn up the thermostat on the central heating. But they should be able to get a fair idea from the contents of his stomach. Then there was Duggan’s background to be gone into. He found himself praying that it was someone from Duggan’s past, rather than one of the villagers. But tempers had been frayed in the village because of the constant rain. What about Geordie Mackenzie? Perhaps a little squirt of a man like that could be burning up with rage and resentment . . .
He found himself hoping against hope that it would not turn out to be one of the villagers.
As he drove along the waterfront, he saw villagers standing around, talking. Up at Duggan’s cottage there were two mobile police vans, and the blue-and-white police tape to cordon off the area fluttered in the rising wind. He unlocked the door of the police station and went in. He felt a little pang that there was no longer the scrabble of paws, no dog any more to welcome him. Towser was dead, buried on the hill above the police station. Hamish was just making himself a cup of coffee when the kitchen door opened and Blair came in, an unlovely smile on his fat face. ‘When do you begin packing up, laddie?’ he jeered.
‘Soon, I suppose,’ said Hamish. ‘Och, I nearly forgot. You’re to report to Strathbane right away. Daviot wants a wee word with you.’
‘What about?’
Hamish shrugged. ‘How can I read the minds of the great? But frae the look on his face, I would suggest you get there fast.’
Blair drove as quickly as he could towards Strathbane. He sensed he was in trouble but could not think why. It couldn’t be anything to do with Macbeth. The man was at fault and would have to go and he had reported Hamish’s crime like any responsible senior officer should do. Occasionally he craned his head to see his face in the rearview mirror and practised suitable expressions. Jovial: How’s the lady wife, sir? Serious: I have been dragged off an important case. Puzzled and bewildered: What’s all this, sir? He decided, after having nearly run over a stray sheep that the bewildered look would be best and kept it firmly in place all the way up the stairs to Mr Daviot’s office.
Peter Daviot was writ
ing busily when Blair entered. Blair stood awkwardly, wishing the super would look up so that he would not lose the appropriate expression. The wind had risen again outside and howled dismally round the square modern block of concrete that was police headquarters. A seagull perched on the ledge outside and regarded Blair with a cynical eye. Blair coughed and shuffled his feet. He felt himself becoming angry. Bugger all suitable expressions. He pulled forward a chair on the other side of the desk and sat down and folded his thick arms, his heavy features now as sulky as those of a spoilt child.
‘Ah, Blair,’ said Mr Daviot at last. ‘This is a bad business.’
‘Duggan’s murder, sir?’
Mr Daviot threw down his gold-plated pen, a birthday present from his wife. ‘No, I do not mean Duggan’s murder. I mean Macbeth.’
‘It’s straightforward enough, sir. He challenged a member of the public to a fight to which the whole village o’ Lochdubh turned out to watch, which makes him prime suspect in Duggan’s murder, so he has to go.’
‘Yes, I have your report. A few thin paragraphs. Now Macbeth’s story is that he meant to give Duggan a verbal dressing down before the whole village.’
‘Havers!’
‘Probably. But you have produced no evidence to the contrary. You say Macbeth is a suspect. He says that before the fight was due to take place, he was in the police office, in the station, and in full view of anyone going past. Did you check this?’
Death of a Macho Man Page 3
