by M C Beaton
“I think he might have burned Willie Dunne to death,” said Hamish.
“If he set fire to thon office, it would be because he thought there was no one inside.”
“What relatives does he have?”
“It was on the telly this morning. His ma is suing the council. ‘Her darling boy,’ and all that. She chucked him out three years ago.”
“Did Malky have a girlfriend?” asked Hamish.
“They were more druggies in arms,” said Jonty. He seemed to think he had made a very witty remark because he doubled up with laughter which ended in a wheezing cough.
“Where does she live and what’s her name?” asked Charlie.
“Gemma Burns. There’s an auld house out on the Lairg road. Called Brae House. It’s a squat.”
Charlie passed over the note. “Try spending that on food, Jonty.”
“Aye, sure, man. I’m clean.”
Hamish and Charlie hurried through the blizzard to Charlie’s car. “It’s a good thing the heater still works in this old bus and I got the snow tyres put on last week,” said Charlie. “Do you think we should try to make it back to Lochdubh? I don’t want to be stuck down here in this hellhole.”
“Oh, let’s get it over with,” said Hamish. “It may stop snowing. What was the weather forecast?”
“Snow flurries.”
“I don’t think those weather folk ever look out the damn window. Look, there’s a gritter up ahead on the Lairg road. That’ll make the going easier.”
“I remember where this Brae House is,” said Charlie. “When I was working down here, we had to evict a lot o’ druggies. The owner went bankrupt and it was claimed by the bank, but by that time it was such a ruin, no one wanted to buy the place.”
They moved forward through the white world in silence, until at last Charlie said, “There’s the place. Up on the left. And there’s smoke coming from one o’ the chimneys.”
They drove up the short drive and parked outside.
“Don’t knock,” ordered Hamish as they got out. “If the door’s open, just walk in.”
The door was unlocked. They walked into a square hall and were hit by a foul smell caused by bad drains, unwashed bodies, old food, and a fresh smell of pot.
Following the smell of hashish, Hamish opened a door on the left of the hall. Three miserable specimens of humanity were huddled round the fireplace. A young man who had been about to pass the roach in his fingers to a girl next to him threw it in the fire.
“You’re cops,” accused a young girl with so many piercings on her face that Hamish wondered if the metal was a good idea in such a freezing winter. Surely it added to the misery.
“We’re not here about drugs, nor are we here to evict you,” said Hamish. “Did any of you know Malky? Is Gemma Burns here?”
There was a silence. Then, “That’s me,” said the girl with the piercings. Another long silence. Snow pattered against a cracked window and wind howled in the chimney. Then a youth with a large black beard and a bald head said, “I kent Malky. He wasnae a murderer.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Charlie.
“Well, he’d steal a bit, maybe, for the drugs. But kill anyone? I cannae believe it.”
Charlie was about to ask for his name, but a warning look from Hamish, whose highland radar had immediately known what he was about to ask, stopped him. Hamish only wanted to hear about Malky and didn’t want this source of information to dry up.
“Did he have a girlfriend?” asked Hamish. “I mean, other than Gemma?”
“He said he had a posh lassie who gave him drugs, methadone and stuff. He said she was a right cracker and had a scam that would see him all right.”
“Did you ever see her?”
He shook his head.
“But what makes you think he couldn’t murder anyone?” pursued Hamish. “If Malky was into hard drugs, then his brain could have been twisted and fried.”
Gemma piped up. “Well, he couldn’t have murdered thon nurse.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Because from the night she disappeared until her body was found, Malky was here wi’ us, chilling out.”
Hamish stared at them, his brain whirling. If he took them in and got their statements, the fury of Daviot would know no bounds. Daviot had gloried in the “solution” to the murders. He, Hamish, would be suspended for going out on his own on Strathbane’s patch.
The inspector, he thought. Fiona Herring, he knew, would be intrigued. He was furious with her for having seduced Charlie, but he knew her to be a good officer.
Another girl said, “Will we have to leave here?”
“I’d like to suggest you all check into a clinic and get off drugs,” said Hamish. “I’ll keep quiet about it until I figure out what to do.”
When he and Charlie were outside, Hamish said, “If we take them in, they won’t be listened to. Daviot wants the case kept closed. I’ll be cursed for dragging in three filthy druggies who probably don’t know the day of the week. Charlie, I’m going to see the inspector when this blizzard blows over.”
“I never want to see that woman again,” howled Charlie.
“I’ll deal with her.”
Unlike the busier parts of Scotland, the roads of the Highlands were usually kept clear with gritters and snow ploughs. As they reached Lochdubh, the snow stopped and the clouds parted.
“You go to the hotel,” said Hamish. “I’ll let you know what happens.”
“You’ll want this,” said Charlie, handing him a small tape recorder. “I taped the whole thing.”
“Man, you’re a genius. Off you go.”
Hamish went into the police station and collected the dog and cat while he went up to check on his sheep. Returning to the police station, he began the job of getting snowballs out of their coats before feeding them.
Then he put on his uniform and set out for Inverness.
Christmas lights sparkled in the windows of shops when he drove into Inverness. The whole place looked like a Christmas card. He suddenly wished he had phoned first. What if Fiona were down in Edinburgh with her husband?
With a sinking heart, he learned that Fiona was off duty. He asked if his friend Mungo Davidson was on duty, found to his relief that he was, and asked to see him.
“Why do you want to contact Old Iron Knickers?” asked Mungo.
“It’s too long a story. Do you know where she lives?”
“I know where she is at the moment. Her ladyship is out wi’ her husband for dinner. They’re at the Taste Of France restaurant in the High Street.”
“Let me use the phone in your office. I’ll call her.”
Fiona, when she came to the phone, appeared to be furious that her caller was none other than Hamish Macbeth. “What the hell do you think you are doing, interrupting my evening off?” she raged.
“Listen!” said Hamish urgently. He began to tell her rapidly and concisely what they had learned about Malky. When he had finished, she said, “Get back to your station and I will call on you in the morning.”
Mungo, who had left his office while Hamish was phoning, met him on the road out. “Flea in both ears?” he asked sympathetically.
“Something like that,” said Hamish, and hurried off.
In the morning, he awoke early, showered, and put on his uniform. He reluctantly allowed the dog and cat out to play. He walked to Patel’s and bought the morning paper. He was relieved to learn that the wild cat sanctuary of about five hundred square miles at Ardnamurchan was being extended to Morven. I hope the beasties breed and breed, he thought, so that there’ll be so many wild cats no one will bother about Sonsie.
He heard a knock at the kitchen door. He reluctantly went to open it, hoping that his dislike for the inspector would not show. Why couldn’t the wretched woman have left Charlie alone?
But it was Charlie who came lumbering in. “Maybe I should send you away on something,” said Hamish.
“I’ll probably have
to see her sometime,” said Charlie. “I’ve brought you a tray o’ shortbread from the chef, some bones for Lugs, and a fish for Sonsie.”
“I’ll phone him later and thank him. Coffee?”
“Grand.”
Hamish turned and put the kettle on the stove. “Where is that bloody woman?” he said.
“Here,” said a voice from the kitchen door. Fiona had walked in quietly. Her eyes, hard and mean, fell on Sonsie. The cat was lying by the stove.
“That is a wild cat,” she said. “And I feel it my duty to report it.”
Hamish’s hazel eyes blazed, but before he could say anything, Charlie commented, “It’s just a big pussycat. It would be a shame to take up police time with a false report—like some of the reports of sexual harassment.”
Fiona glared at him. Unfazed, Charlie smiled back.
She pulled out a chair and sat down. “What’s all this about?” she demanded.
“Just what I told you on the phone, ma’am,” said Hamish. “Would you like some coffee?”
“No! Oh, well yes.”
Hamish reached into the cupboard for cups and said over his shoulder, “Play the tape for the inspector, Charlie.”
She listened intently. When it was finished, she said, “Why didn’t you arrest them?”
“And let Strathbane know we’d been poaching on their patch? It is my belief that Mr. Daviot would be so furious, he would discount the whole thing. He would say that druggies would say anything and they never knew what day it was. Then there is the alibi of Andrew Harrison. He claims that he and his wife were at a wife-swopping party in Edinburgh. Now why say that? He could just have claimed to have been at an ordinary party and I’m sure the other people there would ha’ backed him up. They must all be furious with him. So if by any chance he or his wife could have slipped out at any time, I’m sure they would tell us.”
He put a mug of coffee and a plate of shortbread down in front of her.
She drank coffee and ate a finger of shortbread. Hamish and Charlie waited in silence.
“I tell you what I’ll do,” she said at last. “I will handle the Edinburgh end. You go about your normal duties and wait to hear from me.”
“Yes, ma’am,” said Hamish, thinking he would be glad of a day off. He waited uneasily, praying she would not ask Charlie to accompany her, but she rose, nodded to them, and walked out.
There was a long silence. Then Hamish asked, “How do you feel, Charlie?”
He looked puzzled. “I don’t feel anything. It’s like having a bad fall and then finding nothing’s broken. Is the snow still deep?”
“Pretty deep,” said Hamish, “and no sign of a thaw. I was hoping we might have a day off, but we’d better check up on the old people and see they’re all right.”
After a long and tiring day, Hamish said, “I never want to see another cup of tea again.” At each place they had visited on their enormous beat, highland hospitality demanded they accept refreshment.
Charlie said he would go back to the hotel. He was welcomed by the colonel. “Just in time to join us for dinner, Charlie. Priscilla is back on one of her flying visits.”
Charlie hesitated. “All right. But I’ll just have a salad or something. I’m up to the eyeballs in tea and scones. Been out wi’ Hamish, checking on the old folk. I’ll just change out of my uniform.”
“No need for that,” said the colonel. “You’re one of the family.”
Charlie was once more taken aback by the beauty that was Priscilla. From the perfect bell of her golden hair to her slim figure dressed in a mid-blue trouser suit that matched her eyes, he thought she looked stunning.
“You’re busy,” said Charlie, looking round the crowded dining room.
“I hope I haven’t made a mistake,” said Priscilla. “There’s probably going to be a sighting of the northern lights this evening, so I put it on the website and people came rushing up. If nothing happens, I hope they don’t ask for their money back.”
Charlie suddenly noticed that Priscilla was wearing an engagement ring. “It looks as if congratulations are in order,” he said. “Who’s the lucky fellow?”
“Probably another waste of space,” muttered her father.
“It’s an old friend of the family,” said Mrs. Halburton-Smythe. “Harold Fox-Enderby.”
“He’s too old,” growled the colonel.
“Can I get a word in here?” demanded Priscilla. “He’ll be joining us soon, Charlie. I met him in London. He’s a stockbroker for a firm I used to do computer work for.”
I wonder how Hamish will take this news, thought Charlie. I wonder if he ever really got over her.
The dining room began to clear, and soon huddled-up figures appeared on the terrace outside the long windows.
“I hope I haven’t made a terrible mistake,” said Priscilla.
“About your engagement?” asked Charlie.
“No, of course not! I meant the aurora borealis. I wish now I had employed some technician from the film industry to fake it for me.”
Suddenly there was a great cheer from the terrace, the waiters switched off the lights in the dining room, and the great, swirling spectacle of the northern lights filled the room with greenish light.
“Hullo there!” called a voice. Charlie looked up. A burly middle-aged man was bending over to kiss Priscilla on the cheek.
“Harold,” said Priscilla, “meet my parents. And Charlie Carter, a friend of the family.”
What on earth does she see in him? marvelled Charlie. He’s too old for her.
Harold had a sallow, pugnacious face with designer stubble. He had small eyes and a fleshy nose and large thick lips. His shirt was open at the neck, displaying tufts of hair.
“What’s all this?” he asked. “Son et lumière?”
“No, it’s the aurora borealis,” said Charlie.
“Can we get you something to eat?” asked the colonel.
“No, I had something on the road up. I’ll have a coffee.” He sat down next to Priscilla and put an arm around her shoulders.
“And how is your dear mother?” asked Mrs. Halburton-Smythe.
“Lost her wits. She’s in a home.”
“Oh, dear. Poor Bertha. How awful.”
“Happens to all of us, some time or another,” said Harold. “Mind you, the home costs a mint. Daylight robbery. I can see my inheritance going down the tubes with every day that passes.”
“Is your father dead?” asked Charlie.
“Yes, broke his neck on the hunting field ten years ago. What a godforsaken part of the country this is. Miles and miles of nothingness.”
The lights came on again in the dining room. But it was as if a shadow had crossed Priscilla’s face. “You’ll see more of it tomorrow,” she said. “It is very beautiful.”
Charlie stifled a yawn. “If you folk will forgive me, I’ve had a hard day and I’d like to get to bed.”
The colonel rose to his feet. “I’ll see you downstairs, Charlie.”
No sooner were they in Charlie’s flat than the colonel started. “Why did she choose that ape? He’s been married before.”
“Divorce?”
“No, fell downstairs and broke her neck. I bet he pushed her,” said the colonel viciously. “I’ve never believed psychiatrists to be any good, but I wish now I’d sent her to one after that episode.”
“What episode?” asked Charlie.
“Never mind. Long time ago. What about a dram?”
“I’ll make up the fire,” said Charlie.
“Don’t need to. The central heating works down here.”
“George, I like a fire,” said Charlie stubbornly. The fire was set and ready to light. He struck a match, lit it, and then got out a bottle of whisky and two glasses.
The colonel settled back in an armchair. “Would you like to earn a bit o’ money, Charlie?”
“If you want me to do something for you, I’ll do it for nothing,” said Charlie.
“This is seriou
s stuff. I want you to get rid of Harold.”
“Kill him?”
“No, no. Cut him out with Priscilla. You’re a good-looking fellow. Pitch in there!”
“How long is your daughter up here for?” asked Charlie.
“Just a couple of days.”
“Even if I wanted to, I couldnae romance any lassie in two days. Priscilla has been engaged before and I don’t mean just to Hamish.”
“Never came to anything.”
“So,” said Charlie, “I’ll bet you this one will fizzle out.”
“But there were nasty rumours about Harold when he was married. Said he beat his wife.”
Charlie sat, nursing his glass of whisky and looking into the leaping flames of the fire. At last he said, “I have this chap I went to school with, Lochy Cullen. He was christened Lochinver by his ma who was a fan o’ Walter Scott. That got him picked on in school. I beat off his tormentors because he was a puny wee chap. But I couldnae be there for him all the time. When he got to his teens, he shot up in height and started bodybuilding, and then he began to punch everyone who had tormented him. He works as a bouncer at a posh club in London. Now, here’s an idea. You could pay him to keep an eye on Priscilla. Maybe just for the next fortnight. He might be glad o’ a break from the club. He phones me from time to time. Have you got keys to Priscilla’s flat in London?”
“Yes, me and the wife stay there when we’re in London. Why?”
“Just in case Lochy hears noises of violence and has to burst in.”
“Phone him now!”
“Right. I may get him at the club. You go upstairs. Leave your watch behind. If I come up and hand it to you, you’ll know everything’s been set up. Now, to the money business.”
The colonel came up with a generous sum, left Charlie, and went reluctantly back to the dining room. His wife was sitting alone with Priscilla. “Where’s Harold?” asked the colonel.
“The poor lamb was tired and he’s gone to bed,” said Priscilla.
