by M C Beaton
“Get ower there and take a statement, and then knock on some doors and see if anyone saw or heard anything. Take the Land Rover. When you’ve finished, let Sonsie and Lugs out for a run and then come back here.”
Hamish waited, sitting on a flat rock, hoping that the bane of his life Detective Chief Inspector Blair would decide not to come. He wanted to go back to the body, brush the flies away, and find out if she had been dead before she was thrown over. But he knew he would be accused of contaminating the crime scene. Flies, not yet maggots. If she had been killed elsewhere and then dumped, that would account for the flies. Had the seagulls been at the body? They ate carrion, that he knew.
It was an hour before he heard the sound of the whole contingent from Strathbane arriving outside the café and stood up. With relief, he saw it was his friend Detective Jimmy Anderson heading the group. His foxy face looked as hung over as usual.
“What have we got, Hamish?” he asked.
“A private nurse to old Mr. Harrison. I had a date wi’ her on the Sunday. She didnae show and I thought I had been stood up. Mr. Harrison said she had gone for a walk. The Latvian who works for him said her belongings were gone. I had finished investigating a false alarm in Braikie and came up here because it’s on my beat. Two laddies, playing on the shore, had a nurse’s cap and I recognised it as being the type that Gloria had worn. I searched and found her behind those rocks. I think she was thrown over. Lots of flies. But she disappeared four days ago.”
“Here’s the pathologist, Hamish. Let’s go to thon café and leave him to work.”
Jimmy found to his delight that the café sold liquor and bought a half bottle of whisky and poured a slug into his coffee.
“So where’s Blair?” asked Hamish.
“Sulking. He wanted a transfer to Glasgow, but they didnae want him.”
“But he would be daft to get away from the protection of Superintendent Daviot!”
“Aye. But he doesnae know that. Thinks he’s the best detective since Sherlock Holmes.”
“Who was fictional,” said Hamish.
“Well, our Blair is a legend in his own lunchtime. It only takes a few drams to make him think he is Sherlock Holmes. So when was your date wi’ the nurse?”
“Sunday. Pretty lassie. It’s a damn shame. Mind you, I heard our Gloria liked to go to the Tommel Castle Hotel on her day off and pick up men in the bar.”
“Would old Harrison have killed her?”
“He’s confined to a wheelchair.”
“What about this Latvian?”
“Don’t know much about him. He and his wife work for Harrison. The body’s covered in flies. Doesn’t it take about three days afore they turn into maggots?”
“Something like that.”
“Or maybe she was killed elsewhere and then the dead body thrown over. Oh, here’s Charlie. Found anything?”
“Nothing,” said Charlie.
“I’m waiting for the pathologist’s report,” said Hamish, “and then we’ll maybe look at the top of the cliffs, but it’s no use looking up there if it turns out she wasn’t thrown over.”
Charlie pulled up a chair and sat down. The incoming waves, green near the shore and aquamarine further out, curled and splashed on the beach while restless seagulls swooped and dived.
At last, Hamish could see the pathologist emerging from the rocks. He was a man new to Hamish, tall and shambling with a long grey beard. He joined them at the table as an ambulance lurched down onto the beach.
“I’ll know better when I get a full autopsy,” he said. “I would estimate she’s been dead about four days, but possibly dumped over the cliff maybe yesterday. The flies are pretty fresh. She’s been strangled but she’s got a lot of broken bones showing that she was tossed from the cliffs.”
“Come on, Charlie,” said Hamish. “We’d best get up there.”
“I’ll get over to Harrison’s,” said Jimmy. “Oh, oh! Here comes trouble.”
Police Inspector Fiona Herring came striding up to them. The pathologist made his escape. “This is a cosy tea party,” she said.
“What are you doing here?” demanded Jimmy.
“I have been drafted in to gee up what I am told is a slack lot,” she said. “Fill me in.”
Jimmy told her what he knew. Hamish described his failed date.
“I’m off to interrogate Harrison,” said Jimmy, “and Hamish and Charlie are going to search the top of the cliffs.”
“I’ve a squad of men who can do that,” she said. “Carter can join them. You can supervise, Anderson. I’ll take Macbeth to Harrison’s. He knows the man.”
“May I remind you, ma’am, that I am in charge of this case,” said Jimmy furiously.
“Not now. Superintendent Daviot’s orders. Come along, Macbeth.”
“May I point out that Macbeth was trying to date her?” said Jimmy. “That makes him a suspect.”
“Dear me. A friend in need is a pain in the arse,” said Fiona, flicking a contemptuous look at Jimmy. “She disappeared on Sunday evening. Where were you, Macbeth?”
“Sitting in the Italian restaurant in Lochdubh, waiting for her until ten o’clock, ma’am. Then I went back to the station. I phoned my mother in Rogart for a wee chat and then I went to bed.”
“Sounds all right to me. Come along. We’ll take my car.”
Hamish gave directions to her driver, fighting down a feeling of hurt that Jimmy had tried to suggest he was a suspect.
“So you tried to date the girl,” said Fiona. “I gather she was attractive when not thrown down a cliff and covered with flies.”
“She was very pretty,” said Hamish sadly. “Dainty, like her name. I didn’t know about her picking up men at the hotel although that might just be village gossip. I’ll check later.”
“Hope it is village gossip,” said Fiona, “or it widens the field.” She took out her phone and called Jimmy, instructing him to get over to the Tommel Castle Hotel and make sure none of the guests was allowed to leave until they had been interrogated.
“Why do they call these places ‘boxes’?” she asked.
“Well, it meant you had a grand mansion somewhere and this was just a place for the hunting, shooting, and fishing. But I call to mind, it was originally the residence of a snobbish family in Victorian times who wanted folk to think they were landed gentry. He manufactured drainpipes. They called it their hunting box but they didn’t really have anywhere else. He had it built after he retired.”
“And what is Mr. Harrison’s story?”
“Now, there’s a thing, ma’am. Usually I find out everything about a newcomer on my beat, but he was so obnoxious, my curiosity died. He’s got a Latvian couple working for him. The man, Juris, speaks good English so I don’t think they’re new immigrants. But it’s Mr. Harrison who bothers me. He doted on Gloria and yet his final comment was ‘Good riddance.’”
“What about heirs?” asked Fiona. “I mean, if it got on the family grapevine that he was sweet on his nurse, someone might have seen their inheritance at risk.”
Her mobile phone rang. “Yes, Blair,” Hamish heard her say. He listened as outraged squawks came from the other end of the phone. Then Fiona said in a voice as cold as ice, “If you have any complaint about me being in charge of the case, take it up with your superiors. Furthermore, as there is no proof that the Latvian had anything to do with it, I would be careful about airing your prejudices against immigrants. If I may put it politely, sod off!”
What an amazon, thought Hamish gleefully.
The early dark of a highland autumn lay over the countryside as they drove up the drive to the hunting box. “Has this place got a name?” asked Fiona.
“It’s always been called Dunlop’s Folly. Dunlop was the original owner.”
The black Gothic turreted building stood up against the starry sky. The police driver stopped the car outside the huge brass-studded front door.
“Now,” said Fiona. “Let’s see what we can see.”
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br /> Chapter Three
These are much deeper waters than I had thought.
—Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
Juris answered the door and surveyed them doubtfully. “I don’t know if the boss is up to seeing you,” he said.
“We will start with you,” said Fiona briskly. “Is there some room we can use for interviewing? And we will need to talk to your wife.”
“Maybe the library,” said Juris. “It is never used.”
They walked across the shadowy hall under the glassy eyes of the stuffed animals, shining in the dim illumination of several wall lights. Juris pushed open a door and ushered them in after switching on the overhead light. The original owner had belonged to the class who bought their books by the yard. Great dreary calf-bound tomes lined the walls from floor to ceiling. There was a large desk against the window in front of dusty velvet curtains. Fiona sat behind the desk and indicated that Juris should sit in front of her. Hamish leaned against a wall and surveyed the man. Juris was tall and powerful, with a thick head of hair over a low forehead, marked by strong bushy eyebrows.
Fiona took out a small tape recorder and laid it on the desk.
Before she could begin, Hamish said, “You are a British citizen, aren’t you?”
“Yes, and the wife as well.”
“So why do they call you Latvian?” asked Fiona.
“Our parents on both sides were Latvian. There is a Latvian community in Glasgow. Up here, if you’re from Glasgow, you’re a foreigner. Folk asked why we had such odd names. Told them. Called the Latvians ever since.”
“When did you start work for Mr. Harrison?”
“Last February. He hired us from an agency in Glasgow.” Juris’s voice held only a trace of a Glaswegian accent.
“And where were you before that?”
“Worked for Lord Kinbochy in Gourock.”
“Why did you leave?”
“He died and his place was being sold up by the heirs. Mr. Harrison offered good pay. My wife is a grand cook.”
“Right. Now to the night Gloria Dainty disappeared. Her body has just been found at the bottom of cliffs near Kinlochbervie.”
Juris bowed his head in silence. The highland grapevine is marvellous, thought Hamish. Probably the whole of Sutherland knew Gloria was dead.
“So take your time. What happened on the night she disappeared?”
“She had a date with Hamish Macbeth. When he phoned, I asked Mr. Harrison and he said she had gone out for a walk. But when my wife looked in her room the next day, all her belongings were gone. I told Mr. Harrison. He was furious. He said, ‘Good riddance,’ but I think he was hurt because he was sweet on her.”
“An old disabled man?”
“She flirted with him something awful. My wife said she was hoping to be left money in his will, but I think she hoped to get him to marry her.”
“What makes you think that?”
“I came in one day and she was sitting on his lap with her arms around his neck and saying, ‘Don’t you ever want a wife?’”
Fiona opened her capacious handbag and took out a notepad. “Go away and write down all your movements for the evening she disappeared and the following day. I need your age and if you have any other address. But first send your wife in.”
When he was gone, Fiona asked Hamish, “What do you think?”
“I think he’s decent.”
“Your famous highland intuition tells you that?”
“Maybe. It wasnae working verra well when it came to Gloria. But och, she dressed like a fantasy nurse.” Hamish blushed.
The door opened and Inga Janson came in. Fiona asked her all the questions she had asked her husband.
Then Hamish said, “Tell me, Mrs. Janson. What did you think of Gloria Dainty?”
“Wee hoor,” she said viciously. “Couldn’t leave anything in trousers alone. But the boss didn’t know that. ‘Ooh, I do like a mature man, Mr. Harrison, dear.’” Inga’s voice had risen to a falsetto. She was a plain-faced woman with her hair screwed tightly back into a bun. “She even made a pass at my Juris,” said Inga. “‘I’ll slit your throat if you try any more of that,’ and so I told her.” Inga gave an exclamation of dismay and covered her mouth with her hand.
“Did you murder her?” asked Fiona bluntly.
“No, I did not!” protested Inga. “I wish she’d never come here. Juris told me about her being murdered. I was glad. But I had nothing to do with it.”
Fiona gave her another notebook to write down all her movements. Before she left, Fiona said, “Tell Mr. Harrison we need to search the house. I can get a warrant but it would be easier if he would cooperate.”
Inga left and returned after ten minutes to say the search could go ahead. Fiona phoned and demanded a forensic team.
“Now, Macbeth,” she said, “if Harrison won’t come to see us, we’d better go and see him.”
“I’ll lead the way,” said Hamish. “I think I know where he’ll be. If Gloria was picking up men at the hotel, that does widen the field of suspects.”
But there was someone who was the last person that Hamish Macbeth would ever consider as a suspect.
Charlie had been dismissed by Jimmy Anderson. Jimmy was enjoying looking as if he were in charge. He had addressed the press, who had gathered like gannets. He knew he would be on the evening news. He didn’t want Charlie around because Hamish Macbeth had a nasty way of solving cases and he didn’t want his sidekick reporting anything to him.
When he descended to the hotel basement, Charlie was startled to find a white-faced and nervous Colonel Halburton-Smythe waiting for him. “You’ve got to help me!” cried the colonel.
“I’ll do what I can, sir,” said Charlie. “What’s up? Poachers?”
“If that were all. We’re friends, right? Call me George.”
“Well…er…George,” said Charlie soothingly, “let’s have a wee dram. I’ll put some more peat on the fire. We’ll get comfy.”
Once the fire was blazing and the colonel had knocked back a shot of whisky, Charlie said, “Let’s be having it.”
“I hear that nurse has been found murdered,” said the colonel.
“Yes, sad business.”
“I’m a suspect,” said the colonel miserably.
“You! No, that cannae be right.”
“It was like this,” said the colonel heavily. “My manager, Mr. Johnson, said he was feeling uneasy about her, that she was picking up men in the bar. He told me her name. I said I’d deal with it. There she was, with two of the male guests. She was wearing a very low-cut black dress and high heels. I’d got her name, so I said, ‘Step outside, Miss Dainty. I would like a word with you.’
“I took her into the office and sent the manager away. I told her about our concerns and she began to cry. She sobbed that she was lonely and only came up to the hotel for a bit of company. She threw herself into my arms. I felt like a beast. My wife was away. I soothed her down and said we would have a bit of dinner and talk about it.
“I can’t remember any woman ever flirting with me before. I was in raptures. She told me a sad story about being stuck out in the wilds with old Harrison and on very little pay. I was so sorry for her. I told her to wait a minute. I had bought my wife an expensive cashmere sweater. I got it and presented it to her, and she kissed me! On the mouth! And in front of the waiters.”
“When was this?” asked Charlie.
“It would be the Sunday before she disappeared. Two days later, I went over to confront old Harrison and I demanded to know why he was paying her so little. He told me what she was earning and it was a lot. She was out. I left a message to say she was not welcome at the hotel again. I felt an old fool who had been conned. Now the staff at the hotel will be questioned and my dinner with her will all come out.”
“That sweater, was it wrapped up?” asked Charlie.
“No, I hadn’t wrapped it yet.”
“So she left it in the office and you went to get it for h
er. Now, as long as Detective Chief Inspector Blair keeps off the case, it won’t be too bad. We’ll work out a statement down at the station and make it look oh so innocent. I’ll type it up.”
“What if Macbeth tells my daughter?”
“You don’t know him very well. As far as we are concerned, the little tart threw herself at you. Come along, sir—I mean, George—and we’ll get it over with.”
Hamish was not at the station. Charlie typed up the statement and left it in the office after the colonel had signed it.
They had just returned to the hotel when Charlie got a call from Hamish to say the inspector was driving him to the station and Charlie had better be there.
Hamish Macbeth reflected sourly that he would never, ever understand women. Seated in the station kitchen, the normally hard-bitten Fiona had taken one look at Charlie and her face had softened. She had questioned him about his life, his ambitions, and whether he had a girlfriend. A transformed Charlie had glowed under all the attention.
There was Anka as well, thought Hamish, who refused all his invitations unless they included Dick.
Fiona read Charlie’s report on the colonel and Charlie said, “He is an innocent, ma’am, and a great friend o’ mine. He’s frightened he’ll be suspected of the murder.”
“I think that is highly unlikely,” said Fiona. “I see from the first reports sent in from the hotel that the Sunday Gloria disappeared, the colonel and his lady were over in Caithness at Lord Clardey’s shooting party. They left on the Friday and did not get back to the hotel until the Monday, so what’s the silly man worried about?”
“When there’s a murder, ma’am,” said Charlie sententiously, “everyone feels guilty.”
“You are a very wise young man,” Fiona said, while Hamish felt like howling, What in the name o’ the wee man is so damn clever about that?
Fiona looked around. “You are two very big men and this is a small station. How do you both fit in?”
“We manage, ma’am,” said Charlie quickly.
