Death of a Nurse

by M C Beaton

  When he had rung off, Hamish put his head in his hands. He knew Blair would never give up. Somehow, the wretched man would get a photo of Sonsie and then the game would be up. When Charlie returned, he told him what had happened.

  “Well, now,” said Charlie. “We’ll drive to Ardnamurchan and let her out. If we’re stopped, we can say we’re going to visit the lighthouse. If she comes back, we’ll take her home and find some way to get Blair to shut up.”

  Ardnamurchan is wild and very beautiful with only a sparse population. The tip of the peninsula—Britain’s westernmost point—extends between the islands of Mull to its south and Eigg, Rum, and the more distant Skye to its north.

  They had left Lugs at the hotel in the care of the chef. A magnificent sunset was blazing across the sky as they followed a one-track road, looking nervously to right and left in case any scientists leapt out of the heather.

  “Here’ll do,” said Hamish, pulling onto the side of the road. “We’ll settle down and light the stove as if we’re having a picnic and see how Sonsie reacts.”

  “Cats are very territorial,” said Charlie. “What if she gets mauled?”

  “Then her attacker is going to be one stun-gunned cat.”

  Hamish got out and lifted out the stove. “I brought sausages,” said Charlie, producing a pack. “Sonsie is right fond of sausages.”

  “Grand,” said Hamish, feeling suddenly cheerful. He felt sure Sonsie would not leave him.

  Soon the sausages were frying and Charlie was pouring cups of coffee from a thermos. “Let the cat out, Hamish,” said Charlie. “We’ll need to try sometime.”

  Suddenly uneasy, Hamish let the cat out. Sonsie’s great head turned this way and that and then she bounded off across the heather.

  “She’ll be back,” said Hamish. “I’ll put a couple of sausages on a dish for her.”

  They waited and waited. Then Hamish whistled, that whistle that had always brought Sonsie running back, but there was nothing but the sound of the breeze soughing through the weather.

  The stars blazed overhead. “I’d better go and look for her,” said Hamish.

  Charlie put a hand on his arm. “Something’s there. Sit right quiet.”

  Creeping out of the heather came Sonsie and what looked like a great wild tom cat. They grabbed a sausage each and fled back into the heather.

  “I think that’s that,” said Charlie. But Hamish would not be moved. Charlie got a sleeping bag out and made himself a bed in the heather, but Hamish sat all night long, his heart heavy.

  When Charlie awoke in the morning, he found Hamish slumped against the side of the Land Rover, fast asleep. He gently shook him awake. “Come on home. It’s all over.”

  “What about Lugs?” asked Hamish on the road back.

  “We’ll see if the vet has any strays,” said Charlie. “Get him a wee puppy to look after. You get some more sleep and I’ll see to it.”

  Hamish awoke later in the day. He and Lugs walked slowly along the waterfront. Charlie’s car screeched to a halt. He got out carrying a small white poodle in his arms.

  “Meet Fifi,” he said proudly.

  “That’s no dog for a man,” said Hamish. “Take it away.”

  “Oh, Hamish. It belonged to old Mrs. Murchison what died last week and no one wants her wee pet. It’s got no home.”

  Charlie put the poodle down. She pranced up to Lugs and nuzzled his ear.

  Lugs licked her face.

  “See?” said Charlie. “Isn’t she cute?”

  “I’m not having any animal called Fifi.”

  “Then call her something else.”

  “Look, Charlie. Okay. So long as Lugs is happy. Could you settle them in and feed them? I’ve got to be somewhere.”

  All day long, Hamish sat in Ardnamurchan where he had left Sonsie and called and whistled. Night fell and still he waited until he fell asleep.

  In the morning, stiff, cold, and miserable, he drove the long way back. As he drove along the waterfront, he saw Charlie standing in the middle of the road, waving his arms.

  “Just in time,” said Charlie. “Got a call. Andrew Harrison has been murdered!”

  It became clear to Hamish and Charlie when they arrived at the hunting box that they were no longer to be privileged investigators. Fiona, Jimmy, Blair, and two detectives were waiting outside for the forensic team to finish their work and for the pathologist to give his report.

  Fiona swung round when she saw them and said loudly and clearly for all to hear, “Your presence will not be necessary. Get back to your normal duties.”

  Blair gave a fat grin. “Well, that’s that,” said Hamish as they both climbed back into the Land Rover. “Talk about hell having no fury.”

  As they drove off, Daviot was arriving.

  In the rearview mirror, Hamish saw Blair taking Daviot to one side.

  Despite all the detective chief inspector’s frequent gaffes, Daviot felt comfortable with him. They were members of the same lodge. Blair always kowtowed to him and never made him feel like a fool.

  “It looks as if Malky could not have been the murderer,” said Daviot.

  “Isn’t that just what I was thinking,” said Blair eagerly. “And I know who’s to blame for that.”

  “Who?”

  “Our inspector. Didnae you think it weird, sir, that instead of investigating the murders with professional detectives, she should go out on her own and demand the presence of two local highland bobbies?”

  “Yes, that does seem strange,” said Daviot. He had not liked Fiona’s high-handed attitude.

  “I mean, sir, the police commissioner would be quite shocked if he heard. There were rumours around that she was sweet on Carter and her a married woman and to a judge, too.”

  “Keep your eye on things here,” ordered Daviot. “I’m going back to police headquarters.”

  Once back at his desk, Daviot sent a long e-mail to the police commissioner, putting the blame for pinning the murders on Malky fair and square on Fiona’s shoulders. He felt a warm glow of gratitude towards Blair, feeling that the detective had managed to exonerate him, Daviot, from blame.

  In the police station, Hamish absentmindedly patted the little poodle and scratched Lugs’s ears. His dog looked up at him out of his odd blue eyes. “Sorry, old boy,” said Hamish, “but Sonsie isn’t coming back.”

  “I’ll make us some tea,” said Charlie.

  “Good idea.” Hamish stretched and yawned. “Then I think I’ll catch up on more sleep. I’m so tired I can’t think straight. Do me a favour, Charlie, and take Lugs and that other ridiculous animal out for a walk after we’ve had some tea.”

  “You’ll have to give the wee poodle a name.”

  “I’ll call it It for the moment.”

  “What about Frenchie? Pretty wee thing.”

  “If you want.”

  They drank their tea in silence. Then Hamish said slowly, “Fiona is going to be in trouble over this.”

  “Why?”

  “Just a feeling. As we drove off, I saw Blair talking to Daviot. Daviot won’t want to take the blame for a botched case. What if it came out that she took us around with her, instead of proper detectives?”

  “She seems to have a lot of power. Probably won’t come to anything. I’m off. I’ll wake you later. It’s a good thing old Harrison didn’t promise to leave us something in his will or we’d be dragged in for questioning as well.”

  “They won’t get far,” said Hamish. “Juris won’t tell Blair a thing once he starts his usual shouting and bullying.”

  Charlie walked the animals, glad in a way to be off the case and away from Fiona. The little poodle was a big hit with the locals. Even the Currie sisters bent down to pet her. He then drove them up to the hotel, had a cosy chat with the colonel, and promised to go fishing with him the next day.

  When he returned to the station, he saw with a sinking heart that Fiona was sitting in her car outside. She got out and waited while he parked and let th
e dogs out.

  “I’ve been suspended,” she said abruptly.

  “Why, ma’am?”

  “Some malicious bastard put in a report that instead of using highly trained detectives, I was covering the case with two highland coppers. I mistakenly relied on reports of Macbeth’s successes.”

  “Ma’am, he was the one who told you that I did not think the murderer was Malky.”

  She looked at him sullenly, got into her car, and her driver drove off.

  “Will Daviot call us in for an explanation?” asked Charlie when he had told Hamish what had happened.

  “He can’t,” said Hamish. “He knows damn well we were following orders and that he went along with it. I’m sick o’ the whole business. I need to think. I’ll do some chores.”

  “I’ll help you,” said Charlie.

  Hamish was well aware that Charlie was capable of breaking more things around the station. “No, you take the day off,” he said. “I’ll phone you if I think of anything.”

  Hamish went indoors, made himself a cup of coffee, and then went into the office to go through his notes on the computer. Lugs came in and put a paw on his knee and stared up at him. “She isnae coming back,” said Hamish sadly. “You’ll just need to make do wi’ that piece of fluff called a poodle.”

  After a few minutes, Hamish heard the large flap on the kitchen door bang. He rose and went through to the kitchen to get a piece of shortbread. He looked out of the kitchen window. Lugs and the poodle were chasing each other round the back field in the sunshine.

  I wish I could get ower the loss of Sonsie that easy, thought Hamish.

  He went back to the office, put his hands behind his head, and stared into space, letting all the scenes from the investigation run through his head. Forget about old Harrison’s will, he thought. I wonder if his life was insured. I wonder if they needed money. But Andrew must have been making a fair whack as a London barrister. But maybe Greta was sickened by the sex games. Still, if she wanted rid of her husband, surely the time to do it would have been at the height of the murder investigations.

  How had Andrew been murdered and where? He phoned Jimmy on his mobile.

  “I’ll lose my job if they know I’m talking to you,” whispered Jimmy.

  “How was Andrew murdered and where?” asked Hamish.

  “Savage blow to the head out in the grounds. Look, get the whisky ready and I’ll drop in on you later.”

  After he had rung off, Hamish began to think about drugs. Malky had been a good-looking young man to judge from the photos of him published in the newspapers. He had been handsome enough to attract Gloria and help her get the job with Harrison. Why hadn’t that nursing agency noticed if any of their drugs were missing? They must keep some on the premises. It didn’t seem likely. And surely nurses couldn’t write out prescriptions.

  He had a sudden urge to see if there was a chemist near the nursing agency. He phoned Angela and begged her to look after the dogs.

  “I heard Sonsie has gone and you’ve got a poodle,” said Angela. “I’ll look in at the station. What’s the poodle called?”

  “You think o’ something,” said Hamish. “Thanks, Angela.”

  Hamish called first at the hotel and asked Charlie if he could borrow his car, not wanting to alert Strathbane that he was on their patch.

  He parked near the clinic and looked around. There was a small chemist’s a few yards away. Hamish went in and asked the girl behind the counter if he could speak to the pharmacist.

  The pharmacist introduced himself as George Stoddart. He was a tall, thin man with a face as white as his coat and a shock of white hair. He looked as if he had been bleached all over.

  Hamish asked if he could remember a nurse called Gloria Dainty coming in with prescriptions. “The one that was murdered? Yes, I remember her. She used to collect medicine for patients.”

  “Is it possible you could find out from your records what the prescriptions were for and which doctor signed them?”

  “Wait a minute. It shouldn’t take long.”

  He went into the back where a computer lay on a desk in front of shelves of medicines. Hamish waited impatiently. It was a quiet residential area. Customers came and went. Hamish noticed the computer had a huge back on it instead of a flat screen. Probably take an age even to warm up, he thought.

  At last the pharmacist came back. “The prescriptions are all from Dr. Strachan.”

  “Where is his surgery?”

  “Blythe Road, just round the corner.”

  “And what were the prescriptions for?”

  “Methadone and diazepam. It seemed odd to me that she would want such a quantity, but Dr. Strachan said it was all in order.”

  Hamish walked out into the sunshine and made his way round the corner to the surgery. The waiting room was full, but he flashed his warrant card and demanded to see the doctor immediately.

  He was ushered in after a patient had left. Dr. Strachan rose to his feet and held out his hand. “Welcome. How can I help the police?”

  He was a small brown-haired man, somewhere, Hamish judged, in his forties. He had a square, pugnacious face.

  “The nurse Gloria Dainty received a great number of prescriptions from you for methadone and diazepam,” said Hamish.

  The doctor studied his hands, which were large with thick fingers. “As part of her job. She needed the stuff for patients.”

  Hamish loomed over him. “Rubbish,” he said. “Before she went to Mr. Harrison, she had one patient and that was Miss Whittaker. Tell me what is going on or I will report you to the medical council.”

  He buried his head in his hands and then looked up. “We had a brief fling,” he said. “She wasn’t a patient of mine and she came on to me strong. Then it was over, but the pharmacist phoned me to query prescriptions brought in by her. I called her and demanded an explanation. She said she had stolen a prescription pad from me but if I said anything, she would go to my wife and she had the photos to prove it. She had taken some photos on her phone when we were…er…fooling around. I couldn’t bear the scandal. Officer, if this gets out, I’ll lose my job, my wife, and my children.”

  “I think I can keep quiet about it,” said Hamish. “But if it becomes relevant to an investigation I’m on, then I’ll need to say something.”

  “Oh, God bless you,” said the doctor, and he began to cry.

  So, thought Hamish, as he drove back north. That doesn’t really get me any further. I knew already that Gloria was supplying Malky with drugs. If I report it, I’ll get a row for not telling police headquarters that I was going to Strathbane. They’ll arrest the doctor and maybe decide it was he who murdered Gloria. That’s just the sort of thing Blair would do.

  It all goes back to Harrison and his damn will. That’s the only reason for bumping off Andrew.

  As he climbed down from the Land Rover outside the station, Angela came to meet him. “That poodle is so sweet,” she said.

  “Not a man’s dog,” said Hamish huffily.

  “Neither is Lugs,” pointed out Angela. “I mean, Lugs is not a working dog, like a sheepdog. Have you ever thought that attitude is why you have so much trouble with women?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Gloria Dainty was a shallow gold digger. But you never saw that; neither did any of the other men in the village. All you saw was the blonde hair and the sexy outfit. Until you learn to look below the surface, you’ll never get married. There’s some ordinary-looking woman out there with a good heart and you wouldn’t even give her a second look. That’s why you keep missing out.”

  Hamish stared at her. Angela, with her gentle face and wispy hair, did not turn heads and yet Hamish had always thought the doctor fortunate in his choice of wife. But there was something in what she said. Something he had missed.

  “I wonder,” he said. “I just wonder.”

  He turned abruptly on his heel and marched into the police station. The poodle jumped up and down in we
lcome and Lugs rattled his food bowl. Still turning over what Angela had said, Hamish fried up venison liver for the dogs. He waited until the meat had cooled, chopped it up, and put it down in their dishes.

  The kitchen door crashed open. Jimmy walked in, pulled out a kitchen chair, and sat down. “I deserve a dram, Hamish. What a carry-on! Herring goes off, threatening us all with the wrath of God, Blair shouts and bullies, Greta in tears, lawyer called, Blair charged with police harassment, and everyone screaming and cursing and yelling.”

  Hamish poured him a dram of whisky. “And what did Helen Mackenzie have to say for herself?”

  “What? The boot-faced nurse? Why? She’s the only one in the clear.”

  “Harrison has gone round promising everyone money in his will, even the shepherd. What about Helen? How did he get her?”

  “You remember, when Gloria was murdered, he said he phoned for a replacement and they sent Helen.”

  “I remember. I’d like to know more about Helen. She must have known Gloria. Jimmy, I’ve been warned off. Why not ask the agency if there was any friendship between Gloria and Helen?”

  “Not me. After today, I’m not taking the initiative in anything.”

  After Jimmy had left, Hamish drove up to the hotel and went down to Charlie’s apartment. He and the colonel were sitting by the fire.

  “I thought Charlie had time off,” complained the colonel.

  Hamish ignored him. He told Charlie about his concern about Helen Mackenzie, Harrison’s nurse whom they had never once suspected. Had the colonel not been such a fan of Poirot, he would have gone off in a huff. But instead he listened intently.

  “The trouble is, we’re stuck,” said Hamish. “We daren’t show our faces in Strathbane now.”

  To his surprise, the colonel said, “My wife is going to spend a week with friends in Helmsdale. What if I employed a nurse from the agency? Then I might be able to get all the gossip.”