by M C Beaton
The air was full of shrieking wind, a hellish noise, as if all the devils from hell had been let loose. He reached the entrance to the drive. A small moon raced out from between the ragged black clouds.
The tower was being buffeted by great waves, huge waves, dashing up the side of the cliff and as far as the top of the building. He could dimly make out a light in the tower window and Cyril’s car parked in front. Cyril had gone to earth in Irena’s old room.
As Hamish struggled forward against the wind, he felt the ground beneath his feet tremble.
Some instinct called to him to stop. Some voice in his head was calling “Danger!”
But another voice in his head was calling out, too. “Are you going to let him get away with it?”
He took another step forward.
Arid then even above the noise of the storm, he heard a great rumbling and threw himself flat on his face, his hands clutching at the tussocky grass.
He raised his head and, by the light of the racing moon, watched in horror as the whole castle began to slide into the sea while the clifftop crumbled under the battering of the waves. For a brief second, he saw Cyril silhouetted against the window, and then he was gone—gone down with the castle into the depths of the raging sea.
Now the waves were dashing up, trying to eat away more of the land.
Hamish got shakily to his feet. The air was full of spray. He headed back the way he had come, propelled this time by the wind at his back.
When he reached the Land Rover, he found that the radio wasn’t working, and he could not get a signal on his mobile phone. For the first time, he realised he was soaking wet. He had left the station wearing only a sweater and trousers.
He reversed away from the fallen tree until he could turn around and headed back to Lochdubh.
He reached the shelter of the police station and rushed to phone Jimmy. Jimmy’s voice was faint and crackly, but he said he would be at the police station as soon as possible.
Hamish changed into dry clothes. He took down a bottle of whisky from the kitchen cupboard and put it on the table with two glasses. He checked the stove thoroughly before he lit it in case Cyril had left another bomb in there.
Half an hour later, Jimmy came crashing in.
“Two police cars blown over in the hunt,” he said. “You said something about the bastard having fallen into the sea.”
Hamish told him about the end of the castle. “He was here before that, trying to kill me.” Hamish went on to outline all that had happened while Jimmy opened the whisky bottle and helped himself.
“I thought Blair would have been here organising things,” said Hamish.
“We couldn’t rouse him. His phone was switched off,” said Jimmy. “Well, thank God he’s gone and truly dead. Save the taxpayer a lot of money. No trial. You’d better write down a full statement, Hamish. Before you called, the Met checked on Harold Jury. He’s dead. I wonder where our Cyril got that gun?”
“Do you know,” said Hamish, “that if Cyril had never become so determined to put on that production of Macbeth, we’d never have got him? Or if he hadn’t had such small feet, I might never have guessed it was him.”
“It’s no use phoning air-sea rescue in this storm. Well, I’d better get the men up there anyway and see what I can do. You stay here, Hamish, and get to work on that report.”
When he had left, Hamish went through to the police office and started typing. It took him two hours to write a carefully detailed report. As he typed, he reflected that Mrs. Gentle had made herself look guilty. She had decided not to hire a wedding car because she was regretting the expense and planned to drive Irena in her own car. She stopped the caterers going to the cellar because she thought they might pilfer a few bottles. When he had finished, he sent it off to Strathbane, went through to his bedroom, and fell into bed, fully clothed and down into a dreamless sleep, forgetting for the first time that his pets were not with him.
He woke next morning to the crash of the cat flap. He got out of bed to face the reproachful eyes of two animals. He filled their water bowls and then went to shower, shave, and change into his uniform.
He then loaded his pets into the Land Rover, noticing that the waterfront was covered in pebbles, seaweed, and driftwood, hurtled ashore by the storm. The weather had made another of its mercurial changes. The sun shone down from a clear sky.
Hamish drove up to where the castle had been. Scores of Crime operatives were there in their blue coveralls, hovering uselessly on the cliff’s edge.
Blair was standing there with Jimmy and Andy MacNab. Jimmy hailed him. Blair turned his back as Hamish walked up.
“You can take a look over the edge,” said Jimmy, “but the sea’s still too rough for anyone to go down there. We’ll need to wait until low tide. It’ll take ages to find the body between the ruin of the castle and the fact that the whole of the clifftop went down with it. Come to think of it, to get to the pillock’s body will probably take more money than if there had been a trial.”
Hamish approached the cliff edge and ducked under the police tape. “Careful,” shouted a policeman. “It’s still not safe.”
Hamish gingerly approached the edge, lay down on his stomach, and looked over. Below, a mass of stones, earth, and grass was being pounded by the waves.
He eased his way back again and stood up and went to join Jimmy. “Can’t we just leave him there? It’s going to be difficult to get to him. There was a bit of a beach at low tide, but I don’t know whether that will be still there.”
“We’ll see what we can do. Here’s our lord and master.”
Daviot strode towards them. “I read your report, Hamish,” he said. “That was good work.”
Blair stared at his feet, scowling horribly. He hadn’t had a drink in what seemed like ages, and the craving was strong. He felt that without Macbeth around, he would be restored to the full dignity of his position. It was humiliating for a detective chief inspector to be outclassed by the village bobby.
Hamish Macbeth was behind all his troubles. Hamish Macbeth was the reason he drank.
There must be a way to get rid of him.
Thirteen
Inspiring bold John Barleycorn!
What dangers canst thou make us scorn!
Wi’ tippenny, we fear nay evil;
Wi’ usquebae, we’ll face the devil!
—Robert Burns
Three days afterwards, the body of Cyril was found washed ashore in a cove north of the castle. The experts judged he must have thrown himself clear when the castle began to fall into the sea.
“That’s saved us a lot of money,” said Jimmy, relaxing in Hamish’s kitchen. “It’s nice to get back to normal: drugs, prostitution, and gang fights. What will you be doing?”
“Getting around to repairing the storm damage,” said Hamish. “There are a few tiles off the roof. The henhouse needs fixing.”
“Have the press gone?”
“Thank goodness, yes, apart from a bloke from one of the Sundays, planning an article on Save Our Coastline. Won’t make any difference. They don’t care much in Edinburgh or London about what goes on in the very north.”
“Did that girlfriend of yours come back up?”
“If you mean Elspeth, she iss not my girlfriend, and she iss mad at me because I didn’t give her the story.”
“She’ll come round. She always does. Has Blair been to see you?”
Hamish looked alarmed. “No. Why?”
“He’s been trying to reform me. I thought he might have a go at you. He says drink is the devil’s tool. He rants at me, clutching a large Bible. I think he’s losing it.”
“He’ll get over it. He’ll soon be back on the drink again and his old grumpy self.”
“The trouble is, he’s even grumpier sober. I’d better get off and leave you to your chores. I just called in to see how you were.”
Hamish worked on the roof, replacing slates that had been blown off in the storm. Then he decided to
walk along and visit Angela.
It was one of those white days in the Highlands, veiled behind thick misty cloud. Although the day was quite bright, no sun shone. The waters of the loch had subsided into a glassy calm as if the storm had never existed. The little whitewashed cottages along the waterfront looked as trim as ever, and columns of peat smoke rose from chimneys straight into the white sky.
Two seals floated on their backs in the loch, the idle flapping of their flippers sending out little ripples over the calm. A lot of the old people still believed that the dead came back as seals.
Hamish paused at the stone wall over the beach and watched them. It wouldn’t be a bad life, he thought. Just float around and catch fish. He thought maybe he’d take a boat out later and catch some fresh mackerel.
Angela looked pleased to see him and anxious to hear all the details of the death of Cyril. As Hamish talked, it all seemed very far away—the image of the castle tumbling into the sea like something remembered from a film at the cinema.
When he had finished talking, Angela said, “Poor Harold Jury. The sales of his last book have rocketed. Maybe that’s the writer’s recipe for success. Die violently. Did the press bother you much?”
“No. They were mostly up taking pictures of where the castle went over and going to press conferences in Strathbane.”
“I saw one of those conferences on television. Blair was talking to them and taking all the credit.”
“He aye does that.”
“Doesn’t it make you mad?”
“Not really. The powers-that-be always begin to believe Blair solved any case that I might have had a hand in. It’s better that way. Too much exposure and they really would drag me off to Strathbane. It’s hard to believe that things are back to normal. It seems as if I’ve been frightened for quite a long time.”
“You never go on like a frightened man.”
“Oh, it’s the grand thing to be frightened. Keeps one’s wits sharp.”
Blair was thinking about Hamish Macbeth and wondering how to get rid of him. Murder was out of the question. There must be some way he could get him pounding the beat in Strathbane, just an ordinary copper. Then he thought, if Hamish went missing, after a decent period they might sell that station of his. But how to work it so that no suspicion fell on himself was difficult.
He was leaving police headquarters with Jimmy to investigate a warehouse down at the docks where a tip-off had told him that there were drugs stored, when a prostitute called Ruby McFee was being marched into the station by WPC Aileen Drummond.
Blair knew Ruby of old. She was in her forties and suffering from the wear and tear of pounding the streets in all weathers looking for punters. She was a blowsy woman with a round red face and thick blonde hair showing black roots. Her eyes were small and bloodshot.
“Caught again, Ruby,” said Blair.
“Bugger off,” she said.
Blair shrugged and went on out of headquarters.
The tip-off turned out to be rubbish, and the rest of the day was spent in various routine enquiries. Blair finally settled in his flat in front of the television set that evening with a cup of tea. But there was nothing on the box he wanted to see. He switched it off and turned his mind to the problem of Hamish Macbeth.
God to Blair was a sort of senior detective who sat somewhere up there, looking remarkably like Blair himself. He put one hand on his Bible and prayed for a solution to his problem.
All at once, a splendid idea entered his mind.
Ruby emerged from the sheriffs court in the morning to find Blair waiting for her.
“Whit now?” she demanded truculently.
“I’ve a proposition for you,” said Blair.
“I don’t give free blow jobs any mair.”
“It’s not that. Get in the car.”
He drove her rapidly out of town and up into the moors. Then he stopped the car. “There’s a lot of money in this for you, Ruby, and no hard work.”
“So what is it?”
“I’ll tell you.”
Hamish returned to the police station that evening after having treated himself to a meal at the Italian restaurant. His phone rang.
A woman’s voice said, “I’ve had a burglary. I’m at Rhian Cottage on Sheep Road, the other side of Cnothan. I’m that distressed. Come quickly.”
“What is your name?” asked Hamish.
“Just come!” she screamed, and hung up on him.
Hamish sighed. Surely it could wait until the morning. He glanced at the clock. It was still only nine in the evening.
He decided to get it over with. Leaving his cat and dog, he set out on the road towards Cnothan. The earlier cloud had cleared, and frost was glittering on the heather at either side of the road.
He drove through Cnothan, remembering that Sheep Road was really just an unsurfaced track. He knew there was no sign on the road, and he couldn’t remember anyone living there. When Cnothan had been added to his beat, he had memorised every road in the neighbourhood.
He bumped along the track. His headlights picked out a dilapidated cottage at the very end. Anything stolen from a dump like that, thought Hamish, can’t really be worth stealing.
As he switched off the engine and climbed out, a woman came out to meet him. She was wearing an old·fashioned pinafore and had her hair covered in a headscarf that shadowed her face.
“I’m glad you’ve come.”
Hamish walked towards her. “When did this happen?”
“I was owerin Strathbane and just got back. Come in and see what the bastards have done. They’ve trashed the place.”
She held open the door. Hamish walked in. He found himself in a room, empty except for a table and two chairs. “What…?” he was beginning to say when a savage blow struck him on the back of the head and his world went black.
Angela Brodie opened the door the next morning. Lugs and Sonsie stared up at her.
“This is too much,” complained Angela. “Come along. I’m taking both of you home.”
She marched along to the police station and knocked on the door. There was no answer. She felt for the key in the gutter and opened the door. “In you both go,” she ordered.
But the animals stood there, staring up at her. Perhaps Hamish was still asleep. Angela walked into the bedroom. The bed had not been slept in. Then she remembered she had not seen the police car.
She returned to Hamish’s pets and tried to drag Sonsie inside by his collar, but the wild cat hissed furiously, the fur on her back standing up.
Angela backed off. She walked back home. Both of them followed her. She dived into her cottage and shut the door on them.
An hour later, she opened the door. They were still there, and it was beginning to rain. “Oh, come in,” she said. “But don’t you dare frighten my cats!”
Throughout the day, Angela kept returning to the police station. At last she phoned Strathbane but was told that as far as they knew Hamish had not gone out on any job.
She kept the dog and cat for the night and tried again in the morning. To her relief, she saw Hamish’s Land Rover parked at the side. Once more she knocked and got no reply. Once more she went in and found the station empty.
Angela went into the police office, found Jimmy Anderson’s mobile phone number, and called him.
“Probably poaching,” said Jimmy, “but I’ll drop over later.”
Hamish recovered consciousness. He found he was lying staring up at a dirty ceiling. He cautiously raised his head and then fell back with a groan. He slowly turned his head to find out where he was.
It was a bare room with a bucket in one corner. From the size of the room, he gathered that it had probably been the ‘best’ room in some croft house. A dining hatch was against one wall, perhaps installed there in the house’s better days.
He felt his head. There was a large lump on top of it but the skin did not seem to be broken. He squinted at the luminous dial of his watch. He estimated he had only been unconsc
ious for ten minutes or so, but that had been enough to drag him in here.
He was wearing only his underwear. Someone had moved quickly. And what was the reason for it?
For the next few hours he rested, occasionally trying to get up and at last feeling strong enough to make the effort. As soon as he could stand, he stumbled across to the bucket and was violently sick. Then he relieved himself and went slowly back to the bed and lay down.
He heard bolts being drawn back, and then, pretending to be asleep and looking under his eyelashes, he saw a tray being pushed through the hatch. The hatch went down. He heard bolts being rammed back into place.
Hamish got slowly up again and went over and examined the tray. It contained a pot of tea, milk and sugar, and two large ham sandwiches.
He gratefully drank the tea but still felt too nauseated to eat anything. He examined the room’s tiny window, looking for a way to escape, but it was sealed shut.
He still felt dizzy and sick. He decided to sleep the night and see what he could do about escaping in the morning.
Hamish awoke at seven in the morning. He heard a car arriving, a car door slam, and then the front door of the cottage being unlocked.
Sounds of plates and pans in the kitchen and the sounds of cooking. He put his plate with the uneaten sandwiches on the ledge in front of the hatch. If his captor planned to give him breakfast, then he could grab whoever it was through the hatch. But he didn’t know how many people were responsible for his kidnapping. Better to wait and see if they or he or she left the cottage and then try to escape.
Again the double doors of the hatch opened. He could see a head covered in a black balaclava. His old tray disappeared, and another was pushed through.
He found he was hungry. There were two bacon baps and a pot of tea. He ate and drank and waited.
The room was cold, so he wrapped himself in the filthy blankets from the bed.
He waited and waited while the late winter sun rose and shone in through the window. Then he heard the front door slam and a little after, the sound of a car driving off.
He walked over and examined the double doors of the hatch. He needed something to force those doors and break the bolts.
