Death of a Dreamer

by M C Beaton

  “Why?”

  “I was the astrologer here, remember? They'll tell me things in the hope of getting their fortunes told. Like we said, I’ll drop by the station tonight.”

  At the end of a long day, Hamish and Robin reported to the mobile police unit. Jimmy was asleep at the desk, an empty whisky glass in front of him. “He should never be in charge,” said Robin. “Mr. Daviot should be here.”

  “He’s all right,” said Hamish defiantly. “The poor man’s barely been able to have a sleep since Hal’s body was found.”

  At the sound of their voices, Jimmy awoke. “Oh, it’s you pair,” he said. “Get anything?”

  “Round and round the houses and nothing much,” said Hamish. “Any more on the forensic report?”

  “Just that he was struck dead further up the beach.”

  “Wait a bit,” said Hamish. “That’s odd.”

  “What’s odd?”

  “He was lying half in, half out of the water, faceup. Someone must have hit him and he fell backwards. So they’d drag the body down to the water by the ankles, hoping to dump him in the loch. Probably the murderer heard the boys coming and fled. Did forensic find any drag marks?”

  Jimmy groaned. “They've got a rugby match tonight and cleared off fast. It’s been high tide since then.”

  “You know, Jimmy, I watch these forensic programmes on TV. Whether fiction or fact, the labs always seem to have attractive, hardworking women. Why are we stuck with a lot of boozy men?”

  “They're all staunch members of the Freemasons, and so is Daviot.”

  “Why couldn’t that lot have joined some club or cult that bans liquor? So we can assume that whoever Hal met, it was someone he knew and someone he had no reason to fear. Maybe a woman.”

  “Maybe Jock. Maybe that wee notebook of Hal’s contained something about Jock. That’s it for the day. We'll start again tomorrow.”

  “Has Daviot been around?”

  “He came briefly and fussed and hummed and hawed and then took himself off again.”

  Outside the unit, Robin said she would go back to Strathbane and get an early night.

  Hamish fed and walked the dog and cat and was just wondering what to eat himself when Betty Barnard walked in.

  “Unless it’s police business,” said Hamish sharply, “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “It is in a way. I know you've found out about Jock’s previous charges of assault. I wanted to talk to you about him.”

  “So talk.”

  “Look, Hamish, why don’t I drive us to that French restaurant in Strathbane for dinner and I can fill you in? Come on. It is police business we're discussing.”

  “I shouldn’t be doing this,” said Hamish, “but, och, why not? Who’s to know?”

  Betty talked on the road about how Dora had tricked Jock into marriage and how she had become paranoiac, believing Jock had an affair, all of which, Hamish thought uneasily, he knew already.

  “I know it looks bad for Jock, but he’s not really a violent man. The provocation in both cases was great.”

  Hamish suddenly remembered he had promised to talk to Elspeth. He took out his mobile and dialled the hotel, only to be told by Priscilla she had already left. “Tell her I’ve been called out on police duty,” said Hamish.

  “What was that about?” asked Betty.

  “I was supposed to see Elspeth this evening, and I forgot.”

  “Poor Hamish. Us ladies won’t stop chasing you.”

  He glanced sideways at her as she competently negotiated the one-track roads. Did she fancy him? She was so warm and easy-going and undemanding. He could be happy with her. But would she be happy being married to a highland policeman? Maybe, but only if he relocated to Glasgow.

  She drove into Strathbane and headed for the docks. “It still looks the usual smelly run-down place it’s always been,” commented Hamish.

  “It’s all due for regeneration, and the owner of the restaurant decided to get in first while property is still at rock-bottom prices.”

  “Is he French?”

  “He calls himself Pierre Lachasse.”

  Hamish looked amused. “As I recall, that’s a famous cemetery in Paris.”

  “I thought there was something familiar about it. Here we are.”

  The restaurant was called Highland France. Inside, it was tastefully done up with wood panelling, plants, and curtains on brass rails. The maitre d’ took them to their table and handed them enormous menus.

  “Stick to the set menu,” said Betty. “I’m not being cheap, but it’s every bit as good as anything on the à la carte.”

  They ordered snails to start and then salmon in a fennel sauce.

  Hamish had never had snails before. He thought they were quite tasty, although a bit like garlic rubber.

  He looked around the restaurant and then suddenly stiffened. “Well, I neffer did,” he gasped.

  “What?”

  “Don’t look now, but the boss, Peter Daviot, has just come in with Detective Mackenzie.”

  “What’s odd about that?”

  “I don’t know what Mrs. Daviot would have to say about it. Oh, good, they've been put at a table where they can’t see us.”

  What on earth was Daviot up to? wondered Hamish. And Robin? She was wearing a little black dress cut low enough to expose the tops of two excellent breasts. Her hair had just been done and rioted in curls around her well-made-up face.

  “We're going to have a long meal,” said Hamish. “I want to wait until they leave.”

  Betty grinned. “Suits me. Tell me more about the case.”

  But Hamish would not be drawn. Although he felt in his heart it was ridiculous, Betty was on the list of suspects. So he talked of old cases, spinning out the meal until he saw Daviot and Robin leave. He gloomily noticed that Daviot’s face was lit up, and as he helped Robin on with her coat, he gazed down at her with adoring eyes.

  The ambitious little minx, thought Hamish. I don’t believe she cares for him one little bit.

  He was tired and slept on the way home, only wakening when Betty drew up outside the police station. Betty leaned forward and planted a warm kiss on his cheek. “If only this wretched murder business were over, Hamish. Then we could really see more of each other.”

  Hamish went into the police station, his heart singing, until he saw a note on the kitchen table in Elspeth’s handwriting. It simply said, “Bastard.”

  “I don’t want any more women in my life at the moment,” said Hamish as the dog and cat followed him into the bedroom. “I’ve enough on my plate.”

  But little did he know, there was going to be one more.

  Chapter Nine

  How happy could I be with either,

  Were t’other dear charmer away!

  —John Gay

  “You've lost that look,” complained Jock, working busily on Priscilla’s portrait.

  “What look?” asked Priscilla.

  “The distant one, the remote one. What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing in particular.”

  “Didn’t look that way,” grumbled Jock.

  Priscilla had been thinking about Hamish Macbeth. In London, it had been easy to dismiss him from her mind. But up here when he seemed to be pursued by other women, it was hard not to think about him.

  Elspeth had confided in her that she had had an affair with Hamish and that she had presented him with an ultimatum—marriage or nothing else. Priscilla had been amazed at the bitter jealousy that admission had caused her. Now there was Betty Barnard.

  Jock interrupted her thoughts again. “When I’ve finished this,” he said tentatively, “would you consider buying it?”

  “I’ll think about it,” said Priscilla. So even this artist hasn’t got any designs on me other than money, she thought. Hamish has nothing to worry about.

  Hamish was roused from his breakfast chores by a knock at the door. He assumed it was Robin and was wondering whether to say anything about
having seen her last night. But then he would have to confess that he had been in the restaurant with Betty, and she would give him a stern lecture on socialising with a suspect.

  But it was a strange woman who stood on the doorstep. “I am Mrs. Addenfest,” she said.

  “Come in,” said Hamish, standing aside. She walked past him into the kitchen, a subtle perfume wafting about her.

  She sat down at the kitchen table and crossed a pair of excellent legs. Her hair was an expensive dyed blonde—no brass, but a sort of silvery gold. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, a straight little nose, and calculating brown eyes which betrayed that she was actually much older than she looked. Hamish guessed she had gone in for an expensive facelift to match the expensive hair. She was dressed in Fifth Avenue’s idea of suitable fashion for the Highlands of Scotland: a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a brown velvet collar and matching tweed skirt, sheer stockings, and brogues the colour of chestnuts.

  “How can I help you?” he asked.

  “I axed up at the hotel and was told you was the brightest around.” The Brooklyn voice emanating from this richly manufactured beauty came as a surprise.

  “So what is it you want from me?”

  “Who killed him?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Hamish. “We're working hard on it. When did you arrive?”

  “Last night. Fact is I feel I owe it to Hal—I mean, to be here and arrange the funeral and all. He never got around to changing his will, although he meant to leave me with zilch. I’m one rich lady.”

  “Coffee? Although I wouldnae recommend it. Tea’s better.”

  “Tea’s fine.” She watched as Hamish put an old smoke-blackened kettle on the stove. She gave a harsh laugh. “You find out who murdered Hal and I’ll buy you a new teakettle.”

  “There will be no need for that,” said Hamish huffily. “I haff an electric one somewhere.”

  The cat and dog wandered in. She eyed the cat warily. “That looks like a lynx.”

  “It’s a highland wild cat, but a domesticated one.”

  “Can you get rid of it for now? It scares the pants off me.”

  Hamish opened the kitchen door, and the dog and cat slouched out.

  “Tell me about Hal,” said Hamish. “How did you meet?”

  “It was back in New York when I was working as a model. Hal was the type of man who liked arm candy. I was tired of slaving as a model, and with models getting younger and younger, I wanted security. He was working for an accounting firm and climbing fast up the corporate ladder. We rubbed along pretty well.”

  “I gather he divorced you and got out of paying anything.”

  “He could afford the best lawyers, and I couldn’t. He’d put a private detective on me and found out I was having affairs. Jeez, he must be turning in his grave at the thought of me getting all his money. I’ll give him a big send-off.”

  “Did he have any enemies?”

  “Not murderous ones. Nobody liked him, but because he was chairman of the company, they all crawled to him. When he retired, though, he found no one wanted to know him. He was so vain he decided it must be my fault. I think he thought that if he got rid of me, he’d get friends. Didn’t happen.”

  “Did you hear from him after he moved here?”

  “Just one odd phone call. He said, ‘Listen, you old bitch, I’m going to get married again and to a real woman who appreciates me and who doesn’t go dropping her panties in motels for every trucker who takes her fancy.’ I hung up on him, and that’s the last I heard until you police got in touch with me. I went straight to his lawyers before I left, and bingo, Gloria’s hit the jackpot.”

  “Gloria being you?”

  “Sure. May I call you Hamish?”

  “Of course.”

  “Okay, Hamish. Who’s this female who’s getting her portrait painted by Jock Fleming? Is she a suspect?”

  “Priscilla Halburton-Smythe,” said Hamish stiffly. “Her parents own the hotel. I’ve known her for a long time. Mrs. Addenfest, I would suggest strongly that you leave all investigation to the police. There is a dangerous murderer out there.”

  “Look, I couldn’t stand the man, but I’ve got his money and I feel, well, kinda responsible for him now. When’s the coroner releasing the body?”

  “We don’t have coroners in Scotland. You need to contact the procurator fiscal’s office. Hang on and I’ll get you the address.”

  He went through to his office. When he came back, it was to find that Robin had arrived.

  She was once more her neat and businesslike self. “Mrs. Addenfest and I are becoming acquainted,” said Robin.

  “How long will you be staying?” Hamish asked Gloria.

  “Just till I get him buried.”

  “Aren’t you taking the body back to the States?”

  “Too much trouble. I’ll see the preacher here and arrange a funeral. I’ve heard the Church of Scotland will bury anybody. He didn’t have any religion. Like, he thought he was God.” She picked up her handbag. “Where do I find the local preacher?”

  “If you walk out to the waterfront and turn right, you'll see the church and the manse where he lives right next door.”

  “Thanks. See ya.”

  She departed on a cloud of perfume.

  “What do you make of her?” asked Robin.

  “Not much. She married for money, and I haff no time for the women who court men for money or for advancement in their jobs.”

  He looked narrowly at Robin. “You've got a love bite on your neck,” he accused.

  “I do have a private life, Hamish, and it has nothing to do with you.”

  Good God, thought Hamish, trying—and failing—to imagine Daviot in the throes of passion. What on earth was his boss doing? Daviot had always seemed like a rather rigid, moral man, given to preaching the benefits of family life.

  “Stop staring at me!” snapped Robin.

  “I was thinking about the ex-wife. I wonder when she arrived. It would be really difficult if it turns out we have two murderers. We'll go and see Jimmy and find out if he checked when she arrived in this country.”

  Priscilla made her way up to Jock’s temporary studio for the morning session. There was no sign of Jock. She waited and waited, but he did not arrive. Priscilla had told Jock that she would need to consider if she had enough money to pay for the portrait. Jock had said she could have it for the “knock-down price” of ten thousand pounds.

  At last, she rose and lifted the cover off the painting to see how he was getting on. She let out a cry of dismay. It looked as if someone had taken a rag soaked in turpentine and smeared it right across the portrait to obliterate the face.

  Priscilla ran downstairs and phoned Hamish on his mobile.

  Hamish arrived with Robin, and they went up to the studio. “I’ll need to get this whole room dusted for fingerprints,” said Hamish. “Lock it up.”

  He phoned Jimmy and explained what had happened. After Priscilla had locked the studio, he said he would need to ask Betty Barnard, Mrs. Addenfest, and Jock himself for permission to search their rooms.

  Betty looked mildly hurt. “Now, why would I go about destroying my client’s work, Hamish?”

  “It’s just a process of elimination,” said Hamish.

  Betty’s room was a mess, with clothes lying on the bed and scattered on the floor. “I can never decide what to wear,” said Betty defensively. There seemed to be nothing incriminating, but Hamish had not expected there would be. He had suggested searching Betty’s room because he did not want to be accused of favouritism. Mrs. Addenfest was nowhere in the hotel. Hamish assumed she was at the manse talking to the minister.

  Jock was nowhere to be found. They searched the hotel and the grounds. Hamish borrowed a pair of binoculars and went out to the car park and focussed them up towards the mountains. Then he made out a figure up at Geordie’s Cleft. He adjusted the focus to get a sharper image. It was Jock, sitting at an easel.

  “H
e’s up at Geordie’s Cleft,” said Hamish. “We’d better get up there.”

  Robin looked down ruefully at her neat court shoes. “I’m not exactly dressed for climbing.”

  “You wait here for the forensic people,” said Hamish. “I’ll go.”

  It was one of those white summer days in the Highlands when the sky is covered by a thin veil of cloud and all colour seems to have been bleached out of the landscape. The air was warm and humid, and the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, were out in force. Hamish liberally applied repellent to his face and neck from a stick he always kept in his pocket. He drove up as far as he could and then got out and began to walk, his large regulation boots occasionally slipping on the scree.

  He met Jock as the artist was on his way down. “Waste of time, Hamish,” shouted Jock as he approached the policeman. “The weather just turned, and there doesn’t seem to be a bit of colour anywhere. You're obviously looking for me. Why?”

  “Someone has defaced that portrait of Priscilla.”

  “What!”

  “Someone has taken turpentine and scrubbed the face out.”

  “I’ll kill the bastard who did this,” raged Jock. “I’ll get compensation from that hotel.”

  “Won’t work,” said Hamish. “They've given you a free room and a studio. They're not responsible for protecting your work. You didn’t lock up the studio, did you?”

  “Didn’t see the need,” said Jock bitterly. “I’m getting out of this hellish place.”

  “I want you to stay here a bit longer.” They both began to slither down the hill. “It’s a bit insensitive of you to be up at Geordie’s Cleft.”

  “Why? It gives the best panoramic view, and Effie was nothing to me.”

  “When did you last do any work on the portrait?”

  “Yesterday afternoon.”

  “And you haven’t been inside the studio since?”

  “I went in early this morning, around eight, to pick up my paints. I had a look at the portrait. It was all right then.”