Then a phone call came from the Lochdubh Hotel to say that a group of young people were creating a riot in the public bar. Mac-Gregor appealed for back-up and took the road back to Lochdubh to find the public bar empty apart from a few shattered glasses and the owner of the hotel, who was unable to give a clear description of the young people.
By the time he finally got home to bed, he was nearly in tears of rage. Morning found him in a calmer frame of mind. Lochdubh would sink back into its usual peace and quiet.
And then the phone started to ring. A crofter in Lochdubh complained that five of his sheep had been stolen during the night, and a farmer reported that two of his prize cows were missing. The schoolteacher, Miss Monson, called to say that drugs had been found in a classroom.
Again MacGregor telephoned for help, only to be asked wearily why he couldn’t handle things himself – that is, until he got to the tale of the drugs in the classroom. Detective Chief Inspector Blair and a team of detectives and forensic men were despatched from Strath-bane only to find that the drugs in the classroom were packets of baking soda. ‘Silly me,’ said the giggling schoolteacher, and Blair took his anger out on MacGregor, who had no one to take it out on except his wife, and he was afraid of her.
The amazing thing about British policewomen is that a surprising proportion of them are attractive. And so PC Hamish Macbeth could not help wondering why he had the ill luck to be saddled with such a creature as Mary Graham on his beat. PC Graham, he reflected, looked like one of those women you see in German war films. Not only was there the dyed blonde hair, but she had staring ice-blue eyes, a mouth like a trap, and an impeccable uniform with a short tailored skirt which showed strong muscular legs encased in black tights – not fine sheer tights worn by some of the younger policewomen, but thick wool ones, and her shoes were like black polished glass.
It was a sunny day as they walked side by side along the waterfront, past closed bars smelling of last night’s drunks; past shuttered warehouses falling into ruin, relics of the days when Strathbane was a small busy port; past blocks of houses thrown up in the fifties during that period when all architects seem to have sold their souls to Stalin, and had erected towers of concrete very like their counterparts in Moscow. The balconies had once been painted jolly primary colours, but now long trails of rust ran down the cracked concrete of the buildings in which elevators had long since died, and rubbish lay in heaps on the sour earth of what was originally intended to be a communal garden.
‘I always keep ma eyes and ears open,’ Mary was saying. She had a whining singsong voice. ‘I hae noticed, Macbeth, you’re apt to turn a blind eye tae too many things.’
‘Such as?’ asked Hamish while in his mind he picked her up and threw her over the sea wall and then watched her sink slowly beneath the oily surface of the rising tide.
‘Two days ago there were these two drunks fighting outside The Glen bar. All you did was separate them and send them off home. I wanted to arrest them and would hae done had I not seen that wee boy acting suspiciously over at the supermarket.’
Hamish sighed. There was no point replying. Mary saw villains everywhere. But her next words nearly roused him to a fury, and it took a great deal to rouse Hamish Macbeth. ‘I felt it was ma duty to put in a report about you,’ she said. ‘It is cramping my style to have to walk the beat wi’ a Highland layabout. The trouble wi’ you Highlanders is you just want to lie on your backs all day long. You know whit they say, mañana is too urgent a word for you.’ Mary laughed merrily at her own wit. ‘So I said I would never rise in the force, having to patrol wi’ a deadbeat like you, and asked for a change.’
‘That would be nice,’ said Hamish.
Mary threw him a startled look. ‘I’m surprised you’re taking it so well.’
‘Of course I am taking it well. Ye dinnae think I enjoy walking along on a fine day wi’ a sour-faced bitch like you,’ said Hamish in a light pleasant voice, although Priscilla, for example, would have recognized, by the sudden sibilancy of it, that Hamish was furious. ‘Wass I not saying chust the other day,’ said Hamish dreamily, ‘that it was sore luck getting landed wi’ you instead of someone like Pat Macleod.’ Pat Macleod was a curvaceous brunette of a policewoman who wore sheer stockings instead of tights. Every policeman who had seen her flashing her thighs in the canteen as she deliberately hitched up her short skirt to sit down could bear witness to that.
Mary could hardly believe her ears. She would never for a moment have dreamt that PC Macbeth would even think of insulting her. She did not know that her contempt for him was largely based on jealousy. Macbeth, in a short time, had made himself popular on the beat and householders preferred to bring their troubles to him rather than to Mary.
‘I have never been so insulted in all my life,’ she said.
‘Oh, come now, wi’ a face and manner like yours, you must have been,’ said Hamish who, like all normally polite and kind people, was relishing the rarity of being truly and thoroughly rude.
‘You’re jist mad because Blair winkled ye oot o’ your cosy number in Lochdubh,’ sneered Mary. ‘And you claim to have solved them murders! You! You’re no’ a man. I could beat the living daylights oot o’ you any day.’
‘Try it,’ said Hamish.
She squared up to him. ‘I warn ye. I’m a black belt in karate.’
‘Behave yourself, woman,’ said Hamish, suddenly sick to death of her.
With amazing speed, he moved in under her guard, swept her up in his lanky arms, dumped her head first in an enormous plastic rubbish bin, and, deaf to her cries, strolled off.
That’s that, he thought with gloomy satisfaction, I may as well go back to the police station and resign.
The desk sergeant looked up as Hamish ambled in. ‘Upstairs, Macbeth. The super’s screaming for you.’
‘So soon?’ said Hamish, surprised. ‘Did PC Graham fly in on her broomstick? Never mind. Better get it over with.’
‘Come in, come in, Hamish,’ said Superintendent Peter Daviot. ‘Sit down, man. Tea?’
‘Yes, thank you,’ said Hamish, sitting down on a chair facing the desk and putting his peaked cap on his knees.
‘It seems, Hamish, that there’s been a bit of a crime wave in Lochdubh and Sergeant Mac-Gregor’s being run ragged.’
‘Is he now?’ asked Hamish with a smile. He did not like MacGregor.
‘Milk and sugar? Right. Here you are. Yes, on due consideration, we have decided you should finish up the week here and return to Lochdubh. Here are the keys to the station.’
‘Thank you.’ Hamish felt suddenly bleak. Why had he risen to that stupid Graham woman’s insults?
The door opened and Detective Chief Inspector Blair heaved his large bulk into the room. ‘Oh, you’re here, are you?’ he said nastily when he saw Hamish.
‘Yes,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘It seems you made a bad mistake in suggesting that Hamish be taken away from Lochdubh. There’s been nothing but crime for the past few days.’
‘I know,’ said Blair heavily. ‘I’ve been there on a drugs report. Baking soda, it turned oot tae be.’ His Glasgow accent grew stronger in his irritation. ‘Dae ye know what I think? I think them damp villagers are making up crimes so as tae get this pillock back.’
The superintendent’s face froze. ‘Mind your language in front of me, Mr Blair,’ he said. ‘Are you questioning the word of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, for example?’
‘No, no,’ said Blair hurriedly. ‘But it did look a bit suspicious, ye ken, considering nothing happens there from the one year’s end tae the other.’
‘Except murder,’ put in Hamish.
‘Do not forget Hamish solved that woman’s murder,’ said the superintendent. ‘I am just telling him he must go back and take up his duties there.’
‘Uh-uh!’ said Blair, his face creased into an unlovely smile. ‘Why I came up, Mr Daviot, is to tell you we might be discussing Macbeth’s dismissal from the force.’
‘What! Why?’
&
nbsp; ‘He assaulted PC Graham.’
‘You assaulted a policewoman, Hamish?’
‘It was self-defence, sir.’
‘Haw! Haw! Haw!’ roared Blair.
‘Will you stop cackling, Blair, and give me an outline of the complaint?’
‘PC Graham has just come into the station. She said she was patrolling the beat when Macbeth here suddenly picked her up and threw her in a rubbish bin.’
‘Is this true, Macbeth?’ No more ‘Hamish.’
‘She said she could beat me up and approached me in a threatening manner,’ said Hamish. ‘I was fed up wi’ her. I chust picked up the lassie and dumped her in wi’ the rubbish.’
‘I can hardly … this is very serious … very serious indeed. Oh, what is it, Sergeant?’
The desk sergeant had just entered. ‘It’s three women and a man frae the tower blocks,’ he said. ‘They say they’ve come to defend Macbeth here. They say they saw Graham attacking him and Macbeth being forced to defend himself. They say when they helped Graham out of the bin, she said she was going to get Macbeth charged with assault and they say if that’s the case they will all go to court as witnesses for Macbeth’s defence.’
‘We must not let this get into the newspapers,’ said the superintendent, horrified. ‘Get rid of these people, Sergeant, and say that Macbeth is not being charged. Shut Graham up at all costs. Good heavens, just think what the tabloids could make of this. Macbeth, I suggest you go back to your quarters and pack and leave for Lochdubh in the morning. Blair, I am surprised at you! In a situation as potentially explosive and damaging to the police as this you should get your facts right. Macbeth, wipe that smile off your face and get going!’
To order your copies of other books in the Hamish Macbeth series simply contact The Book Service (TBS) by phone, email or by post. Alternatively visit our website at www.constablerobinson.com.
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Death of a Scriptwriter £6.99
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Death of an Addict £6.99
Death of a Celebrity £6.99
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And the following titles available in 2010 …
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Death of a Dreamer Apr 2010 £6.99
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Grand Total £
The Hamish Macbeth series
Death of a Gossip
Death of a Cad
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Glutton
Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Charming Man
Death of a Nag
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Dentist
Death of a Scriptwriter
Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas
Death of a Dustman
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Village
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Bore
Death of a Dreamer
Death of a Maid
Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Witch
Death of a Valentine
Copyright
Constable & Robinson Ltd
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London W6 9ER
www.constablerobinson.com
First published in the USA 1988 by St Martin’s Press 175 Fifth Avenue, New York, NY 10010
This edition published by Robinson, an imprint of Constable & Robinson Ltd 2008
Copyright © 1988, 2008 M. C. Beaton
The right of M. C. Beaton to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.
All rights reserved. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, hired out or otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
A copy of the British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library
ISBN : 978–1–78033–205–5
Death of a Perfect Wife Page 16
