At last he reached the motor inn and eagerly asked the manager if he could search through the hotel rubbish. ‘Suit yourself,’ said the manager. ‘It gets collected tomorrow. It’s all round the back.’
He led Hamish out to the back of the hotel, where two giant metal rubbish bins gleamed wetly in the lights from the inn. ‘You’d best leave me to it,’ said Hamish gloomily. ‘I’ll need to take everything out.’
‘I’ll make it easy for you,’ said the manager. ‘The bin on the left is the kitchen waste. The one on the right is mostly other stuff from the rooms, old newspapers, that sort of stuff.’
The bin was so large that, tall as he was, Hamish had to stand on a box to reach down into the contents. The hours went past as he patiently sifted through cartons, newspapers, magazines, cigarette butts, condoms, sandwich wrappings and empty bottles. He threw everything out over his shoulder and then climbed into the bin as the contents grew lower and by the light of his torch ferreted around in the bottom. His hands closed on a cassette and he gave a whoop of triumph. He shouted for the manager, who came running out. ‘I want you to witness that I am taking this out o’ the bin,’ said Hamish. ‘We’ll take it into reception and play it.’
Together they went back into the warmth of the reception, where Hamish had left his radio. He put the tape in the deck and pressed PLAY. After a few seconds, the throaty voice of Cher blasted around the room.
Hamish did not normally swear, but when he switched off the tape deck, his oaths resounded round the room. ‘Here! Enough o’ that,’ said the manager. ‘If you’re finished, take yourself off.’
‘I’m going for another look,’ said Hamish stubbornly.
He went back out into the wind and rain and climbed back into the large green metal bin, concentrating on the refuse from the hotel rooms which was in the small plastic rubbish bags used to line the waste-baskets. He opened one at the bottom and shone his torch. An empty half-bottle of whisky, a crushed, empty cigarette packet, several butts, soiled tissues . . . and a tape.
Once more, he called the manager. ‘What is it this time?’ demanded the manager with heavy sarcasm. ‘Dolly Parton?’
‘I want you to witness I’m taking this out of the bin.’
‘Oh, sure.’
Hamish climbed out. Together they went back into the hotel again. Hamish slotted in the tape and switched on the machine. At first there was silence, broken only by the hiss of the tape, and then suddenly the room was filled with the sound of an approaching train. A slow smile broke on Hamish’s thin features.
He listened until the sound of the train had finished. ‘Is that what you wanted?’ asked the manager.
‘It’s the very thing.’
‘Well, I’m short-staffed at the moment, so get out there and put that rubbish back.’
But Hamish had had enough of ferreting through rubbish. ‘It’s all police evidence,’ he said. ‘You’ll need to leave it as it is until the forensic boys get here.’
As he drove back to Lochdubh, Hamish’s feeling of triumph began to ebb. He should have told Blair what he was going to do. Blair would be furious.
And sure enough, when he drove towards the police station, he saw the cars parked outside, and in the light of the blue lamp over the front door, swinging wildly in the wind, he made out the truculent features of Blair.
‘What have ye been up to, pillock?’ shouted Blair. ‘I got a call frae Birmingham telling me they were pulling in Beck for questioning and I didnae know a thing about it. Daviot’ll get to hear o’ this.’
‘I’ve got the tape Beck made of the train going past,’ said Hamish.
‘How? What . . .?’
While Hamish talked, Blair only half listened to him, his mind working busily. Somehow he had to claim this bit of detective work as his own. He became suddenly conciliatory and smiled horribly. ‘Aye, well done, lad. You’ll be needing your bed. Just let’s be having that tape.’
Hamish meekly passed it over. He knew what Blair was going to do. Blair would tell Daviot that he, Blair, had instructed Hamish to phone Birmingham and had sent him out to look for the tape.
Which was what Blair subsequently did and was met with heavy suspicion. ‘What were you about,’ demanded Peter Daviot nastily, ‘to send one lone constable out on the search? And phoning the CID in Birmingham and giving them instructions is your job, not Macbeth’s.’
‘I phoned them myself,’ howled Blair.
‘That’s not what I heard. I heard that Hamish Macbeth phoned.’
‘I mean,’ said Blair quickly, ‘like I just said, I told him to phone.’
‘Next time, do the job yourself.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Blair meekly, and he hated Hamish Macbeth from the bottom of his heart.
Chapter Eight
When love grows diseas’d, the best thing we can do
is put it to a violent death; I cannot endure the
torture of a lingring and consumptive passion.
– Sir George Etherege
As a sign that Superintendent Peter Daviot knew who had uncovered Beck as the murderer of Rosie, Hamish Macbeth was invited to the interview in Strathbane when Beck was brought north. Blair was in a sour mood.
Hamish, in the corner as usual, looked at Bob Beck with a sort of wonder. He was a grey-haired man with a slight stoop, thick spectacles through which pale eyes looked out at the world with a childlike innocence, a rather large nose and a small mouth. He was wearing a well-pressed grey suit and black laced shoes. He was hardly the picture of a man who, driven mad with passion, had plunged a knife into the naked back of Rosie Draly. Had it not been for the evidence of the tape, Hamish would have been tempted to think that he had merely been unlucky, that he had travelled to Sutherland to see Rosie on the very day of her murder.
Blair began the questioning, mildly enough for him. Beside Beck sat his solicitor, a thin, rabbity man who looked even more bewildered than the murderer.
‘How long had you known the writer, Rosie Draly?’
‘Years,’ said Beck, and then said firmly, ‘to save time I would like to make a full confession.’
Blair smiled expansively. ‘That’s the ticket, laddie. Go ahead.’
‘I fell in love with Rosie just after Beryl and I were married,’ he said in a rusty voice, as if he had not spoken for some time. ‘That was in nineteen sixty-four. I wanted to leave Beryl, get a divorce, but then Beryl told me she was pregnant and Rosie told me I must do the decent thing and stay with her. I’ve hated Beryl for a long time.’ He blinked round the room myopically. ‘But I coped, particularly after I got the job in Birmingham. Beryl did not want to move to Birmingham and that suited me. Rosie and I met . . . often. I wanted her, I wanted to have her, and she always held out that hope and I believed her because I was in the grip of an obsession. When I wasn’t with her, I thought of her all day long. Some days I thought I would take time off from this madness, but then the day would be so black and empty, I would need to return to my dreams. In my dreams, I always made love to her as no man has made love to a woman. She wrote to me regularly and I saved all her letters. And then she moved to Sutherland, and the letters became less and finally stopped. When I phoned her, she always seemed to cut me off. May I have a glass of water, please?’
They waited while a policewoman fetched him a glass of water, which he drank in one long thirsty gulp.
‘At last I couldn’t bear it any longer,’ he went on. ‘She had told me that Lochdubh was a gossipy place and I was never to come up and see her. But I drove up. I took a tape recording of the train going past because I knew I had to phone Beryl. When I set out, I had no thought of murder in my head. I did not need to ask directions to her cottage. When she first moved up to the Highlands, she had described it in every detail and where it was. I was stunned when she answered the door. She was harsh with me, abrupt. She said she had big things ahead of her, a good future. She was going to London to see her agent and couldn’t waste any time on me.’
; His eyes filled with tears and he blinked them away. ‘She said she was going to have a bath and I could take myself off. She walked into the bedroom and she stripped off, insolent in all the nakedness I had dreamt so long about. I haven’t much memory of what happened next. I hurt so dreadfully. All I could think of was hurting her as much as she had hurt me. I must have taken the knife out of the kitchen drawer. I went back to the bedroom. She was bending over the bed, still naked. I plunged the knife into her back. I’m no surgeon. I didn’t know where to strike, didn’t even think of it. But she died instantly. One minute she was alive and the next she was as cold as mutton.
‘And then all the hurt and rage left me and I was looking back on a life ruined by obsession. All I could think of was to save myself, not make myself a sacrifice for such a woman. I found letters from me and some of her letters to me still on a computer disc. She never hand-wrote letters, and I burnt them. The rest you’ve found out – how I went to the Cluny Motor Inn, phoned Beryl with the tape of the train playing in the background, and how I threw it in the rubbish.’
His voice died away. Blair leaned forward, his beefy shoulders hunched, suppressed excitement quivering in every part of his unlovely body. ‘But you were up here afore,’ he said. ‘Tell us how you killed Randy.’
Hamish leaned back in his chair and sighed and waited for the inevitable denial. To his horror he heard Beck say, ‘So you know about that, too?’
‘Aye,’ said Blair triumphantly. ‘So tell us about it.’
Hesitantly Beck said, ‘She said she had met this most interesting man. It was in one of her rare letters, but I read between the lines and I went mad with jealousy. I stayed at a bed-and-breakfast place on the road to Lochdubh; don’t ask me what it was called, I was in such a passion, I can’t remember. I bought a shotgun in Birmingham. They’re easy to get if you know which pub to go to. I bought myself a wig and put on a pair of sunglasses and scouted around until I had identified him and then I followed him home. I had some chloral hydrate. It was my mother’s. I called on him and said I was a friend of Rosie’s and had dropped by for a chat. He offered me a drink. When he was out of the room, I poured the chloral hydrate into his glass and then, after he had drunk it, I waited for it to take effect. I bound up his hands because I was frightened he would wake up. I shot him, turned up the heating to conceal the time of death, just in case I had been seen, and then I drove south again, stopping only to throw the shotgun into a peat bog.’
‘You’re lying,’ said Hamish Macbeth.
Blair’s face turned purple with rage. Here he was on the edge of winding up the whole business and this rat, Macbeth, was trying to spoil it. Like every other human being, Blair judged other people’s motives by his own. Hamish Macbeth was trying to take his success away from him.
‘You!’ he roared at Hamish. ‘Get oot o’ here!’
And so Hamish left. Beck signed a written statement and the next day the newspapers were full of the solving of the two murders.
The press left Lochdubh: satellite dishes, cables, cameras and all. The rain continued to fall steadily and Hamish Macbeth was left alone with an unsolved murder on his hands. He believed that Beck had murdered Rosie – all that passion, all that obsession had been genuine. But why on earth had the man confessed to murdering Randy? All the details of the case had been published in the newspapers, so he would have known of every detail, from the tying of the wrists to the chloral hydrate in the drink. Blair, so anxious to believe the confession, would not check it thoroughly, would not find out who Beck’s mother’s doctor had been and whether he had ever prescribed chloral hydrate. Could it be that Beck might have been as burnt up with hatred for his wife as he had been with passion for Rosie? Was this his way of getting even, so that Beryl would find out she was married to a double murderer?
He sat down in his office and began to write out a short list of suspects. There was Geordie Mackenzie, who had been sorely humiliated by Randy; there was Annie Ferguson; there was Andy MacTavish, the forestry worker; and even Archie Maclean was suspect. And then there was Willie Lamont and Lucia. Beck had shown what a mild man in the grip of passion could do. He now could not interview any of them officially. But he could talk to them as friends. He could say that he did not believe Beck had murdered Randy and he knew that piece of gossip would go around the village like wildfire.
He had not seen anything of Betty and felt he ought to phone her but did not like to find that Priscilla was answering the hotel phones. He shivered. Not only was it still raining but the weather was turning colder. He lit the wood-burning stove in the kitchen so that he would have a warm room to return to, pulled on his raincoat, settled his peaked cap down about his ears and went wearily out into the deluge. He headed in the direction of Geordie’s cottage, reflecting that he had never been there before. It was a trim, low-storeyed, whitewashed building. The garden was neat and orderly, with small flowerbeds edged with scallop shells. He rang the bell and waited.
After a few moments Geordie answered the door and smiled a welcome. Hamish thought that none of his suspects would feel they had anything to fear from the police any more. Geordie led the way into a small living room. It was as soulless and characterless as Rosie’s and just as cold.
‘Coffee?’ asked Geordie. ‘I just put the kettle on.’
‘No, thank you,’ said the normally mooching Hamish and Geordie looked at the tall policeman with a flicker of unease at the back of his eyes. ‘Well, well,’ he said, rubbing his hands, ‘sit down, sit down. It was kind of you to call. What a business, eh? Here we all are thinking of international crime and gangsters and it was that man, Beck, all along.’
‘Aye,’ said Hamish, ‘but there’s a lot still to be explained.’
‘Such as?’
‘Who on earth was Randy Duggan, for a start? Why the plastic surgery? And why,’ said Hamish, leaning forward, ‘should Beck admit to a murder he did not commit?’
Geordie stared in dismay. ‘What are you talking about, Hamish?’
‘I don’t believe he killed Duggan. He killed Rosie, yes, but not Duggan. And this is Scotland, not England. A confession on its own isn’t enough. They’ll need to dig up some more proof, although, if I know Blair, he’ll try not to.’
Geordie protested, ‘But why would he admit to it?’
‘I think his obsession with Rosie turned Beck’s brain. I think he hated his wife with a passion because she would not give him his freedom when he wanted to leave her and marry Rosie. I think he thought he would confess to Duggan’s murder to get revenge on her and also to make him look more macho, not some wimp dying of love for a woman, but an action man.’
‘That’s guesswork. Look, Hamish, it’s over and we can all return to normal. You’re only trying to stir up things because you’ve got a hunch. Folk here say you’re easygoing and would rather go fishing than solve crimes. What’s come over you?’
Hamish’s normally lazy expression vanished and a hard look came over his face. ‘I may be easygoing with small little crimes in the village that can be sorted out by me, Geordie, without bringing Strathbane into it. But when it comes to murder, then justice must be done, and justice isn’t pouncing on some fellow who gives a convenient confession. I will continue to ferret away, Geordie, until I find the real killer. It could ha’ been anyone.’ He let a little silence fall. The rain drummed steadily on the bushes outside the window. Then he spoke again. ‘It could have been you.’
‘Me!’ squeaked Geordie. ‘Why me?’
‘He humiliated you publicly.’
‘And you think that would make me kill the man? Because I was humiliated? Look at me, Hamish, I was a schoolteacher, long years of teaching snotty little boys who took the piss out of me on every occasion. Teachers who were promoted over my head for no other reason than that they were rugger buggers or sleeping with the head’s wife. I tell you, man, with me, humiliation’s a way of life!’
Hamish got up to leave. ‘Chust remember, Geordie,’ he said quietly
, ‘that I’m still looking.’
After he had left, Geordie stared bleakly for a long time at the chair in which Hamish Macbeth had been sitting, and listened to the relentless sound of the rain.
Hamish glanced at his watch and then set off towards Lucia and Willie’s cottage by the bridge. When he arrived, Willie was polishing the kitchen counter while the beautiful Lucia painted her nails bright red.
Willie came in from the kitchen, a cleaning rag in his hand. ‘Glad it’s all over, Hamish,’ he said cheerfully. ‘Isn’t this awful weather? They say there’s more perception forecast for the morrow.’
‘Precipitation,’ corrected Hamish. ‘And it’s not all over, Willie. You, as an ex-policeman, should know that Beck’s confession to the murder of Randy is just a bit too pat.’
‘I think,’ said Lucia in measured tones and with a toss of her black curly hair, ‘that your nose is out of joint because Blair solved the murders.’
‘It wass not Blair,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘It was me that found out Beck was guilty of Rosie’s murder. But I do not believe for a moment that he killed Duggan.’
‘Of course he did,’ shouted Willie. ‘It’s over, all over, and you’re just stirring up muck out of vanity.’
‘I believe,’ said Hamish, holding on to his temper, ‘that someone in Lochdubh killed Randy and I am going to find out who that someone is and my personal feelings for any of the inhabitants of Lochdubh will not get in the way.’
‘Meaning you still think I might be guilty!’ exclaimed Willie.
‘You or Lucia.’
‘Get out of my house . . . now!’ yelled Willie, flapping the cleaning rag and filling the air with the smell of ammonia. He rushed and opened the door and stood by it. Hamish turned in the doorway and looked back at Lucia. Her eyes were wide with fear.
He turned his coat collar up against the rain and went back to the police Land Rover and got in. ‘Time to make someone else’s life a misery,’ he said to the windscreen wipers as they slashed against the streaming rain. He drove off and went around the loch to where the pine forest stood and then up one of the forestry tracks, rolling down the window until he could hear the crash of falling trees.
Death of a Macho Man Page 12
