Death of a Dreamer

by M C Beaton

  —Sir Walter Scott

  Hamish did not have any hope of a speedy DNA analysis of the used condom, but for once, Daviot was really desperate for answers. Forensic swabs were taken from Jock and the men living in the boarding house and sent to the forensic laboratory in Aberdeen along with the condom.

  While he waited for the results, the investigation seemed to have temporarily ground to a halt. Mrs. Daviot phoned him in high excitement to say that her husband, once the case was closed, was going to take her on a second honeymoon. Robin came into the police station just as Hamish was putting down the phone.

  “That was Mrs. Daviot,” said Hamish.

  Robin eyed him warily. “If she’s looking for her husband, he’s on his way from Strathbane.”

  “She just wanted to tell me that they are going on a second honeymoon once this case is over. Now, isn’t that romantic?”

  “Oh, sure,” she said sarcastically. “I’ve got some news about Mrs. Addenfest.”

  “What’s that?”

  “She said she arrived at Glasgow airport after she had been notified of Hal’s death. But she was in the country before Hal died. She arrived at London airport two days before his murder. I don’t know how she hoped to conceal it. Checked with New York police, and they said they got the number of her cell phone—that’s American for mobile—and called her on that with the news because she was out when they visited her flat and her maid gave them the number.”

  “He can’t have left her that broke if she had a maid. Didn’t the maid tell the police she had gone to Britain?”

  “The maid has about two words of English. Mrs. Addenfest’s over at the unit. I’ve come to fetch you.”

  They walked out together. “Men are bastards,” said Robin, suddenly and viciously.

  “You're talking to one.”

  She shrugged in reply.

  Gloria Addenfest was seated before Jimmy in the unit. Her perfume hit them like a scented wall when they walked in.

  Hamish felt a rush of gratitude for Jimmy. He was so used to Blair keeping him away from every interview.

  “Now we're all here,” said Jimmy, “you’d better explain why you lied to us about your arrival in this country.”

  “I thought it looked bad,” said Gloria, crossing her long legs. “So I lied. No big deal. I didn’t murder him.”

  “So when did you really arrive up here?”

  “Right after the cops phoned me about him being murdered. I came straight up from London.”

  “What were you doing in London?”

  “Look, it’s like this, see.” Gloria lit a cigarette. “I’ll come clean. I really meant to come up here and confront the little rat. They had an audit at his company and found Hal had been embezzling. I remembered his high and mighty moral tone at the divorce proceedings, the way his lawyers made me look like a whore. I wanted to see his face when I told him his firm’s lawyers had been to the police and were trying to get an extradition order. I just wanted to see the look on his stupid face. But I stayed in London.”

  “Why?”

  “Do I have to tell you?”

  Hamish regarded her with amusement. “You met someone on the plane over,” he said.

  She flushed angrily. “Well, okay. He was in pharmaceuticals, and we hit it off. He said he’d show me a good time. We moved into the Ritz together and started to do the town.”

  “Name?” asked Jimmy.

  “Must I? He’s married.”

  “Name!”

  “James Roden. He’s still at the Ritz as far as I know.”

  “We'll check out your alibi. In the meantime, stay in Lochdubh and give us your passport. Now, how much had Mr. Addenfest embezzled?”

  “Close to a million. He’d been siphoning it off over the years. Funny, though,” said Gloria. “He had one hell of a salary. But he was secretive and nasty. He probably enjoyed ripping them off.”

  Jimmy got a statement typed up and told her to sign it, then got a police officer to escort her back to the hotel.

  “There are too many women in this case, and all of them seem to be covering up for something,” said Jimmy. “The forensic lab promised us the DNA results fast. Meanwhile, keep asking around the village if anyone saw anything. I know you've done it over and over again, but folks are funny. Sometimes they come out with something amazing that they never even thought of telling us at the time.”

  “Who first?” asked Robin outside.

  “I’ve got a salmon in the freezer.”

  “So what?”

  “So we'll go back and see Angus.”

  The seer invited Hamish in but grumbled that the salmon was frozen, saying he liked it fresh-caught.

  “Have you thought of anything, Angus?” asked Hamish.

  The seer leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. “Women everywhere,” he said. “Manipulating women.” He opened his eyes and looked at Robin. “You were out to ruin a marriage. Just thank the stars you didnae succeed.”

  “Forget about Detective Mackenzie,” said Hamish impatiently. “I know all about that.”

  Robin’s face flamed.

  Angus settled back in his chair again and closed his eyes. If the old sod goes to sleep this time, I’ll strike him, thought Hamish. I want one salmon’s worth.

  “Strong sexual urges and bad, bad jealousy,” crooned Angus. “You're looking for a woman.”

  “Which woman?”

  Angus opened his eyes. “The spirits have left me.”

  “I expected more for a whole fish,” exclaimed Hamish.

  “So who have we got?” asked Hamish as he and Robin walked down to the police Land Rover. “We've got Caro Garrard, Gloria Addenfest, Dora Fleming, and Betty Barnard.”

  “My money’s on Dora,” said Robin.

  “I thought you suspected Betty.”

  “I think it’s Dora now. She’s had a rough, coarse life. I bet she was in a lot of fights when she was on the streets.”

  “But what would Dora have to do with the murder of Effie?”

  “Maybe Effie’s death was suicide.”

  “Hal phoned his wife to say he was getting married,” said Hamish. “One of the women must have been seen with him. We’d better go up to the hotel and start again.”

  “All that stuff about me trying to break up someone’s marriage was rubbish,” said Robin. “You said you knew.”

  “I don’t think you planned to break up a marriage, more to sleep your way to the top.”

  Hamish’s phone rang before Robin had time to reply. “Get back here immediately,” Jimmy ordered. “They've phoned over the DNA results.”

  “Whose is it?” demanded Hamish as soon as he and Robin walked into the police unit.

  “Jock Fleming. They've gone to fetch him,” said Jimmy.

  “Where’s Mrs. Fleming?”

  “We had to let her go for the moment. That night, she says, she wanted to go down to the garden at the back for a bit of fresh air. She said if she’d gone out the front, the sound of all the locks being unlocked would have woken Mrs. Dunne. Mind you, I’ve sent some men to go through that room of hers again, looking for the least little thing. That sounds like Jock arriving now.”

  The artist was brought in. He looked at them wearily. “What now?”

  “Sit down,” barked Jimmy.

  Jock slumped down in the chair in front of him.

  “A used condom was found in the back garden at Sea View. We found your DNA on it. Now your ex-wife says that on the night Addenfest was murdered, she went out through the fire door and down into the back garden for a bit of air.”

  “It’s all very simple,” said Jock. “She wanted to talk about more money. One thing led to another. We had a quickie up against the garden wall.”

  A policeman who had just walked in interrupted them. “Sir,” he said to Jimmy, “sorry to interrupt, but this was found stitched into the hem of the curtains.” He held out a glassine envelope full of white powder. “I tested a bit. It’s cocaine.”


  “Get Dora Fleming along here.”

  Jimmy glared at Jock. “Do you know what I think? I think you wanted that notebook of Addenfest’s because you were frightened that there was something in there that would incriminate you. I think you miserable pair—you and your ex-wife—got high. I think one of you lured him to the beach, and you both killed him to cover up the murder of Effie Garrard.”

  “This is rubbish,” blustered Jock.

  “And why should you want sex with a wife you divorced?”

  “She’s got certain interesting tricks.”

  I am slipping, thought Hamish ruefully. I had thought he was such a nice ordinary man.

  Dora was brought in. Jimmy waved the envelope of cocaine in front of her. “This was found sewn into the curtains of your room.”

  “That’s naethin’ tae dae wi’ me!” she shrieked. “You lot must ha’ planted it there.”

  “Enough of this,” said Jimmy. He turned to his waiting police officers. “Take them over to police headquarters. I’ll interview them separately.”

  As they were led out, volubly protesting, Hamish said, “That’s odd.”

  “I’m off,” said Jimmy. “What’s odd?”

  “Dora Fleming shows no sign of being a drug user. Someone could have planted those drugs.”

  “Why?”

  “To muddy the waters.”

  “Go back to Mrs. Fleming’s room and see if you can see anything that might have been missed.”

  Robin felt uneasily that as the superior officer she should be taking the initiative, not Hamish. But Daviot’s rejection had thrown her, and she was sure he would do everything in his power to block any promotion. She wished these murder cases would get solved quickly now so that she could put in for a transfer.

  Mrs. Dunne was furious. She followed them up the stairs to Dora’s room protesting that she kept a decent house and somehow it was all Hamish’s fault. Hamish and Robin went into Dora’s room, and Hamish shut the door firmly in Mrs. Dunne’s angry face.

  There was a sour smell in the room. “She doesn’t believe in washing much,” said Robin, wrinkling her nose, “and her dirty clothes are lying everywhere.”

  “Let’s see these curtains,” said Hamish. He knelt down on the floor and studied the unpicked hem. The curtains were acid green and of a cheap synthetic material. They were short, and when he drew them closed, the light shone through them. “That’s how they saw the envelope of drugs,” he said. “They would look at the curtains and see it outlined against the light. And look. The stitches are very neat. I cannot imagine one such as Dora Fleming being a good needlewoman.”

  “So you think the drugs were planted?”

  “Maybe. Let’s have a good look around.”

  They searched the room thoroughly but found nothing incriminating. “I tell you what,” said Hamish. “Do you mind if I leave you alone for a bit? I’ve a personal call to make.”

  “And I’ve got someone to see in Strathbane,” said Robin. She had decided to confront Daviot and see if she could use a bit of emotional blackmail on him.

  “Right. I’ll meet you back at the police unit at, say, three o’clock.”

  Hamish headed up to the hotel. He had a sudden longing to see Priscilla, to sit in her calm presence as he had done in the past and talk about the case.

  He found her in the gift shop, selling a mohair sweater to a tourist. After she had finished, Hamish asked, “Any chance of a talk?”

  “I’ll just close up the shop and tell Mr. Johnson if anyone wants anything to tell them to come back later. You look worried.”

  She locked the shop door. “We'll use the gun room.”

  “I hope it’s kept securely locked,” said Hamish uneasily.

  “It’s locked and burglar-alarmed.”

  Hamish waited while Priscilla unlocked the gun room door and reset the alarm. They sat down in battered old leather chairs. A reflection of Priscilla’s face swam in the glass of one of the cabinets, and dust motes danced in the shafts of sunlight coming in through the windows.

  Hamish began to talk, going over everything he had learned.

  He wound up by saying, “I fear there is something far wrong with Jock Fleming. What sort of man sneaks out at night to have sex with his ex-wife up against a garden wall?”

  “It’s a new one for you, Hamish. You see, I don’t think you've come across someone so completely amoral as Jock Fleming before. It is my opinion he would screw the cat.”

  “Has he made a pass at you?”

  “Not even a flicker. It’s my money he’s after. And there’s a point: You say drugs were found? Maybe Jock’s a drug addict.”

  “I don’t believe it. Neither Jock nor Dora shows the slightest sign of drugs—unless you count alcohol as a drug. I think someone really did plant it there and someone very clever who knew that with the sun shining through those cheap curtains, the envelope would be spotted.”

  “So either someone knew about the fire door or someone managed to get in during the day unseen. How could they do that?”

  “Mrs. Dunne doesn’t lock the outside door during the day. It took a strong nerve to sneak in there and calmly sit sewing that envelope into the curtains. I’d better ask around again. Maybe someone saw someone going into Mrs. Dunne’s who doesn’t live there.”

  “There’s something mad, calculating, and cunning about our murderer,” said Priscilla. “And somehow, though Jock may not be the murderer, it’s something to do with him. Unless, of course, Effie’s sister is right and she really did commit suicide and Hal’s wife knew about his will and decided to finish him off before he got married to whoever he was talking about.”

  “That’s if there was another woman,” said Hamish. “He could just have been saying that out of malice.”

  “And yet he went out in the middle of the night to meet someone.”

  “Could be someone from his past, someone we don’t know about.”

  “What about Betty Barnard?”

  “Hard to imagine,” said Hamish stiffly. “Oh, well, I’d better get off and start questioning people. That means starting with the Currie sisters, since they're next door to Sea View.”

  Hamish started by questioning Nessie Currie, mentally editing out the Greek chorus that was her sister.

  “I saw no one going in there that shouldnae be going in there,” said Nessie. “There was just the folks that live there when I looked and the postie.”

  “What time of day did you see the postie?”

  “Must have been about lunchtime yesterday.”

  “But the postman only delivers at nine in the morning.”

  “Then it must have been a special delivery because he walked right in.”

  “Did you see him come out?”

  “I’ve got more to do with my day than stand on my doorstep and watch people.”

  “What did this postman look like?”

  “Tall. One of thae baseball caps. Couldn’t see his face.”

  It could have been easy for someone to masquerade as a postman, thought Hamish. Navy clothes, a canvas bag, and a baseball cap pulled well down. Must have known Dora Fleming wasn’t due back for a while. So we're looking for a man. Maybe it’s Jock, after all.

  He thanked Nessie and went along the waterfront, questioning one villager after another. A few had seen the postman. He had arrived on a bicycle, but they could not add anything further to Nessie’s description of him.

  Then Hamish remembered that the hotel had a few bicycles for use by more energetic guests.

  He headed back to the hotel and asked the manager if he could take a look at the bikes.

  “Go and take a look yourself,” said Mr. Johnson. “They're in a shed by the kitchen door. It’s not locked during the day. No one’s taken one out for months.”

  Hamish went round to the back of the hotel. He could hear the clatter of dishes from the kitchen. He went to the shed and opened the door. There were six mountain bikes.

  At first, t
hey all seemed to be clean and oiled. The roads had been dusty. He went from one to the other. The one at the end had a thin film of dust on it. Need to get this fingerprinted, he thought. Things are looking bad for Jock.

  He went back to the mobile unit to meet Robin. Her face was flushed, and she looked as if she had been crying.

  Robin had gone to Strathbane to see Daviot. He had received her coldly. Robin asked him what had happened between them, and he had said his affair with her had been nothing but a bit of dangerous folly and that he loved his wife.

  Upset and furious, Robin tried to hint that she could make life difficult for him if the affair ever came to light.

  “If you do that,” Daviot had said, “I will deny everything. I should never have got mixed up with a harpy like you. I am arranging for you to be transferred to Inverness. You start there next week. My secretary will give you the details.”

  Robin knew she was beaten. If she did make the affair public, then she would be found to be the guilty one in the chauvinistic world of the police force.

  She seemed barely to listen when Hamish told her about the bicycle and suggested they both go to Strathbane to interrupt Jimmy’s interview.

  “You go,” she said. “I’ll keep on asking questions.”

  Robin wandered along the waterfront. The air was close and warm, and midges stung at her cheeks and bare arms. She stopped to slap at them when she heard herself being hailed by Elspeth. “You should go to Patel’s and get some repellent,” said Elspeth. “In the meantime, have some of mine.”

  “Thanks.” Robin took the stick from her and applied it.

  “How’s the case going?” asked Elspeth.

  “Who cares?” said Robin bitterly. “I’m sick of the police. You know, I always thought policemen would be honourable, but they're just rats like any other men. Take you to bed one night and claim the moral high ground the next. Makes me sick.”

  She handed back the repellent and strode off, leaving Elspeth staring after her in dismay.

  Faithless, philandering Hamish, thought Elspeth bitterly. She went back to the local newspaper office and phoned the news editor in Glasgow.

  “Things have ground to a halt up here,” she said.

  “We could do with you back in Glasgow,” said the editor. “But your colour pieces have been very good. What about a piece on that local copper? File it and then come back. We can always send you up again if anything breaks.”