Hamish MacBeth 15 (1999) - Death of an Addict

by M C Beaton

“Like what?”

  “When I asked you if you’d ever been in love, you fair bit my head off. Why was that?”

  “I’ll tell you. If only to make sure you don’t talk to the lads about snogging with a chief inspector.”

  She ate a mouthful of grouse. Then she said, “I was a detective constable, young, ambitious. He was a chief inspector called Fergus Shane. He was handsome and clever. At first I had a crush on him, that was all, you know, like a schoolgirl crush. Then one evening I had been working late on a case and I had just filed my report when he came in. He asked me if I had eaten and when I said I hadn’t had the time, he took me out for dinner. Over the first dinner, he told me he was married. That cooled me down. After that, a few weeks passed and again I was working late and again he asked me out for dinner. He said his wife was away visiting her sister in Elgin. It seemed like just a friendly invitation.”

  The sun went behind a cloud and there was a sudden chill in the air. She shivered and hugged her knees. “He told me he was getting a divorce. There were no children and nothing to tie him down. And then he said he had fallen in love with me, and I believed him. By the end of that dinner, I was head over heels in love. We began an affair in secret. He said it had to be secret until the divorce came through.”

  “And then I came back to the station late one night. I had been out on a case which had fallen through. I wasn’t expected back at all, but I thought I may as well get my report out of the way. I saw the light shining through the frosted glass of his door and my heart lifted. Then I heard the sound of masculine laughter. I hesitated outside the door, wondering who was with him and whether to go in, when I heard a man say, ‘So what’s our Olivia like in bed, Fergus?’ ”

  “And then the voice of my beloved came loud and clear, ‘Hot stuff. Bit naive. Screams a lot. Fergus, oh, Fergus, that sort of thing.’”

  She fell silent, staring at the rushing river.

  “So what did you do?” asked Hamish.

  “I went to my flat. I wanted to die of shame. But I wanted revenge. I could not report him, of course, I couldn’t. If I told his wife, then I would lose my job. All the men would be on his side. Then I thought that if he had done it to me, he would do it to someone else. First I dropped him. I told him I was seeing someone else. I had a nasty time after that, all the rotten cases, but I waited and watched. The chief superintendent’s old bat of a secretary retired and he got a new one, very pretty girl in a hard sort of bitchy way. I saw Fergus beginning to sniff round her. I watched and waited. I began to follow them. I got a camera. I took pictures of them in restaurants and then I followed them when they went to Rothesay for the day and got some tremendous snaps of them kissing on the beach.”

  “I sent the photographs to his wife and another set to the chief superintendent.”

  “What happened to him?”

  “Nothing would have happened on the job front, I suppose, except that the secretary told the super that Fergus had not told her he was married and had promised to marry her. He had even given her a ring. Then the wife arrived, screaming blue murder. He was demoted and transferred to a small local police station. He left the police force and is now, I believe, chief security officer at a big chemical works. I’m not proud of what I did. I haven’t been with a man since.”

  “It’s a wonder you didn’t leave the force yourself,” said Hamish.

  “I threw myself into my work. I got the reputation of being a hard woman. God, I don’t know why I told you all this.”

  “Have some champagne. I havenae been lucky in love either.”

  Feeling that one confidence deserved another, Hamish refilled her cup, and told her about his aborted love affair with Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. “In fact, I never have much luck with women,” he said ruefully. “Anna in Amsterdam was a typical mess-up. It’s getting cold. I think we should go.”

  ♦

  Kevin whispered to Barry as they walked into Lachie’s that night, “Something’s going on between that pair.” He jerked a thumb at Olivia and Hamish.

  “Oh, that. Hamish told me that they’re pretending to be mad about each other,” muttered Barry, “so that Jimmy won’t think it odd her going along on the drop.”

  “Good act if you ask me,” said Kevin, shouldering his way ahead.

  ♦

  Once more into Lachie’s office. “Well, Hamish,” cried Jimmy White. “I gather you’ve got an idea we should check a wee bit o’ the load.”

  “Aye, that way you can see the stuff is good and I can be sure you’re not about to double-cross me,” sneered Hamish, his arm around Olivia’s shoulders.

  “Oh, come on, man, all friends here.”

  “If that’s the case, you can tell that lang dreep o’ a man over there,” Hamish said, pointing to the Undertaker, “to stop following me around.”

  “It’s no’ my man. That’s Lachie. Suspicious o’ his ain mither. Right, to business.”

  One of Jimmy’s men spread out an ordnance survey map. “We would like you to land the stuff here in two days’ time. Can you manage that?”

  Hamish looked at the map. Of all the damn places, he thought. Loch Drim!

  “Why there?”

  “One of our spies said it was a grand place to land. We havenae used it before. Your men bring the stuff ashore to this point.” He stabbed down on the rocky promontory opposite the cave where Jock had hidden his monster.

  “But to get there you’ll have to go through the village of Drim,” said Hamish, “and believe me, the locals will know you’re there.”

  “No, they won’t. You’ll be coming in my boat and we’ll go in from the sea as well.”

  “In that case, why not go out to my boat and pick the stuff up at sea?” demanded Hamish.

  “Could be caught by the Customs and Excise that way. My boat will drop us there one hour before the meet. I assume your lads have the stuff well hidden. If the Customs come cruising around, they won’t bother much with one boat, but two together would excite their suspicions.”

  I hope Jock’s given up playing with his monster, thought Hamish.

  “Well, Hamish?” demanded Jimmy. “Can you get the stuff there in two days’ time? That’ll be Monday morning at two A. M.”

  Hamish thought quickly. He was sure that for this operation the ketch would have a high-powered engine.

  “It’s a deal,” he said, holding out his hand.

  Jimmy shook it, and then, holding on to Hamish’s hand, looked at the calluses on it which Hamish had got from working round the croft.

  “Done time?” he asked.

  “South America,” said Hamish, pulling his hand away. “Bribed my way out.”

  “Okay, let’s have a drink,” said Jimmy.

  Fortunately for Hamish, Jimmy liked to brag rather than listen. He told of drug deals and contacts. Hamish felt himself go almost weak with relief. Jimmy trusted them.

  But he only breathed easily when they got out of there and back to the hotel.

  “Can we start writing down what he said?” Kevin looked anxious. “All those names, all those drug contacts.”

  Olivia laughed and unbuttoned her blouse. Underneath, she was wearing a brief lacy bra and in her cleavage was tucked a little black tape recorder. “Got every word,” she said.

  “Very good, ma’am,” said Hamish curtly as Kevin and Barry goggled. “I think you can cover yourself up now.”

  Olivia turned a faint shade of pink as she quickly buttoned up her blouse. “I’m going to try this out and phone Daviot,” she said.

  She went off into the bedroom. “Anything going on between you two?” asked Kevin. On the other side of the bedroom door, Olivia pressed her ear to the panel.

  “Don’t be silly,” she heard Hamish say clearly. “She’s a good officer and I’ve forgotten she’s a woman.”

  “With boobs like that!” exclaimed Kevin.

  “You just forget she’s a woman as well.” snapped Hamish.

  Olivia moved away, grateful to Hamish
for keeping quiet about their afternoon on the rock. She phoned Daviot.

  ♦

  Hamish lay awake a long time that night, not because Olivia was lying in the bed beside his, but because he was now worried about Jock Kennedy and his monster. But Jock would know that one more sighting of his rubber beastie would bring Hamish down on his head. So much to worry about, thought Hamish. Jimmy had said he would pick them up at their hotel on Sunday evening. Nothing he could do until then but wait and worry.

  Hamish and Olivia mostly kept to their hotel room. Kevin had bought them a Scrabble board and they played games and watched television and read. It seemed a long time until Sunday night but suddenly it was upon them and there was one of Jimmy’s henchmen to drive them down to a high-powered boat in the oily, polluted harbour of Strathbane where even the seagulls looked dirty.

  They joined Jimmy in the cabin, all sitting around the table, but not saying much. One of the crew landed them on the point at the head of Loch Drim. “Now we wait,” said Hamish. He looked across the darkness towards the cave but there was no sound and no sign of life.

  The night was frosty and calm. He had never known an hour pass so slowly. Then at last they heard the faint sound of an outboard engine.

  “That should be it,” he said with an air of relaxed ease which belied the rapid beating of his heart.

  The sound of the engine approached and then cut off. There was silence apart from the lapping of the waves and then the sound of oars in rowlocks. Hamish took out a torch and gave a brief flash. There was an answering flash and then in the starlight they could see faintly a dinghy rowed by two men, pulling towards the point.

  Hamish strolled forward to meet it. “Any trouble?” he asked.

  “No trouble, sir.” Hamish cursed inwardly. That “no trouble, sir” had been a damn sight too polite and official. He took hold of the oilskin packet the man was holding up as he stood in the rocky boat.

  “Get off fast,” he ordered. “I don’t want you hanging around.”

  “Yes, sir.” Damn, it’s a wonder he didn’t salute, thought Hamish furiously.

  He turned to Jimmy. “There’s the first instalment.”

  “Bring the torch here,” Jimmy ordered one of his men. He took a wicked knife out of his pocket and cut open the package and looked down at the cellophane bags.

  “Aye, that’ll do, Hamish. Now we wait a bit until my man comes back.”

  “So if you’re satisfied,” said Hamish, “we can let you have the rest of the stuff in, say, another two days.”

  “Aye, we’d best make it here. Say Wednesday morning. I’ll pick you up same as this evening.”

  ♦

  “You know what I’d almost forgotten about,” said Hamish when he and Olivia were back in their hotel room. “The person whose death started all this. Tommy Jarret. I’ve no doubt his parents have been trying to get hold of me. They must have thought I’d forgotten about the whole thing.”

  “When we catch them, we’ll sweat it out of Lachie.”

  “I think such as Lachie won’t talk.”

  “Anyway, let’s get this over with. If you like, I’ll get us some time off and we can see if we can find out anything further about the boy’s death. I’m going to bed. It’s been a long night.”

  Hamish waited until she had finished using the bathroom and then went in and ran himself a hot bath. He put on his silk pyjamas—courtesy of the police force—and went into the bedroom.

  He felt his way in the darkness to his bed. He should be tired, he thought, but he was plagued by a strung-up, restless feeling mixed with an uneasy feeling of apprehension.

  “Hamish.” Olivia’s voice was soft in the darkness.

  “Yes?”

  “I can’t sleep. I’m worried.”

  “Me, too.”

  “Hamish?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you come over here, we could worry together.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Hamish Macbeth. It was the first time he had obeyed a senior officer’s orders with any enthusiasm.

  ♦

  It was a pity that Superintendent Daviot could not tell the difference between duty and grovelling. He rated Blair highly because Blair always praised him. The temptation to boast about the latest success of the operation was too much. He sent for Blair.

  “We’re doing just fine,” said Daviot, rubbing his hands. “Just fine.”

  “So what’s the latest, sir?”

  Daviot told him about the success of the first drug delivery. “So all we have to do is hope the second meet goes as well and then we’ll have them. And Detective Chief Inspector Chater has done splendidly. When they went to Lachie’s and Jimmy White was bragging about his contacts, she taped every word. We could do with someone bright like that here. We haven’t got a single woman detective and it’s bad for our image.”

  “I think the success of the whole thing is due to your meticulous planning, sir,” said Blair.

  “Well, I must say I’ve had a hand in it. But give credit where it’s due, I think we owe a lot to Hamish Macbeth. He’s been rotting up in that village of his for too long. Drink?”

  “That would be very nice, sir. Just a splash of whisky.”

  Blair’s mind raced. This was awful. Hamish Macbeth transferred to Strathbane was bad enough, but to have a woman of the same rank was worse. Women should stay at home and in the kitchen where they belonged.

  “So you were saying,” said Blair, taking the glass of whisky handed to him, “that the final operation is at two o’clock on Wednesday morning at the head of Loch Drim?”

  “That’s it and then we start a massive round-up of all the other villains. Thanks to Chater, we’ve got all the names.”

  Blair went back to his desk afterwards and brooded over the problem. He then took out his book of informants, or snouts as they were called, and ran his finger down the list. He picked up the phone. “Callum,” he whispered. “Blair here. Meet me down at the Fisherman’s Bar at the docks. Can you be there in an hour? There’s big money in this for ye.”

  He listened to the reply and then said, “I’ll see you there. Don’t let me down.”

  The Fisherman’s Bar dated from the days when there were fishermen and the harbour at Strathbane had been crammed with trawlers. But overfishing and European Union quotas had crippled the fishing industry and the harbour lay deserted apart from a few rusting hulks of boats. The Fisherman’s Bar consisted of little more than one small smelly room. Nicotine from millions of cigarettes had stained the once-white walls yellow. There was an ancient jukebox in the corner, still containing a stack of sixties records. No one could quite remember the last time it had worked. A television set over the bar was relaying the latest horse racing from Ayr and Cheltenham. No one ever came to the bar for any good purpose. It was a haunt of small-time villains. Callum, the snout, was one of those dwarf-sized men who still inhabit inner cities. His sparse hair was combed carefully over his bald spot. He had a deeply wrinkled face, no teeth, not even false ones, to lend shape to his sour and wrinkled mouth. He wore glasses and chain-smoked.

  His information was usually as small-time as the villains who used the bar—petty theft, people who grew and sold cannabis, the odd ram raid, burglary and some warehouse break-ins. He passed these tidbits on to Blair, who would pay him the occasional tenner for the information.

  Blair came in and sat down at the battered table in the corner which Callum had chosen. “I’m surprised you chose this place,” said Callum.

  “Nobody knows me down here,” said Blair.

  “Aye but you stink of copper,” said Callum, watching a couple of men swallow their drinks quickly and make for the door.

  “Okay, we’ll take a walk.” Callum looked disappointed. He craved a drink but had not ordered anything, expecting Blair to pay for one.

  Both men walked out. The day was cold and clear. Mournful seagulls swooped overhead. Plastic cups, condoms, burger wrappers and other detritus bobbed on the filthy w
ater.

  “So what brings you?” asked Callum.

  “This is big money,” said Blair.

  “How big?”

  “Very big. I’m giving you information to sell.”

  EIGHT

  O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,

  O Grave, thy victoree?

  The bells of Hell go ting-a-ling-a-ling

  For you hut not for me.

  —British army song.

  Callum’s heart beat hard as he went into the noise of Lachie’s disco that night. How much should he ask for such information? A thousand?

  He went up to the bar. The bartender eyed him with disfavour. “What d’ye want, old man?”

  “Not so much o’ the old man, laddie,” said Callum. “I’m here to see Lachie.”

  “Oh, aye? And what’s your business?”

  “I’ve got information for him.”

  “Awa’ wi’ ye. He’s busy.”

  “Okay, tell him I’ll see him in prison.” Callum had shouted the last words to be heard above the disco beat. “Wait here,” said the bartender.

  Callum turned round and watched the gyrating couples. How could folks get enjoyment out of dancing like that? The stabbing strobes hurt his eyes and the music hurt his ears. No damn tune, either.

  The bartender came back. “Come with me.”

  He led Callum through to Lachie’s office.

  Lachie was alone. Callum threw a longing glance at the bar in the corner.

  Lachie was sitting behind his desk. He did not ask Callum to sit down.

  “So what’s this information?” he asked.

  “I’m not saying anything until I see Jimmy White and get paid for it.”

  Lachie leaned forward. “I don’t know anything about anyone called Jimmy White. Get out o’ here.”

  “He’s caught in the middle o’ a police scam,” said Callum sulkily.

  Lachie looked at him long and hard, and then he smiled. “Have a seat. What’s your name?”

  “Callum.”

  “Callum what?”

  “Just Callum.”

  “Drink?”

  “Aye, a whisky would be fine.”

  Lachie picked up the phone and, turning away from Callum, whispered into it. After he had replaced the receiver, he went to the bar and poured a generous glass of whisky for Callum.