by M C Beaton
‘It can’t get out,’ said Blair. ‘If it gets out I’ll lose my job, and I’ll make sure you lose yours too. Shuddup. Here’s the news.’
He crouched forward, his hands clasped and his head bent in a ludicrous attitude of prayer.
The news started off with the headlines. A bomb had gone off in Number 10 Downing Street. Intended to kill the Prime Minister, it had not succeeded but had killed two members of the Cabinet, a policeman, two detectives, and a messenger. Hamish watched in a dazed way. The next headline was that the tail-end of the American hurricane Bertha had struck the Clyde estuary. Ships had gone down, people had been killed by flying slates, trees uprooted, and cars blown off bridges.
‘Oh my God,’ breathed Blair. ‘Saved by the bell. Was ever a man so lucky!’
Thoroughly sickened, Hamish walked out. The hotel was a buzz of activity with reporters packing up and photographers paying bills; the air was full of the sound of cars revving up in the car park outside.
Chapter Seven
While Titian was grinding rose madder
His model was posed on a ladder,
Her position to Titian
Suggested coition
So he dashed up the ladder and had her.
– Anonymous
Hamish was standing in the forecourt of the hotel, moodily watching the hectic departure of the press. Ian Gibb was running frantically from one to the other, crying, ‘You won’t forget? You’ll ask your editor?’ Obviously he had been trying to wangle a job on some paper in the south.
‘Macbeth!’
Hamish swung around and looked at Blair, who had followed him out, his eyes quite blank. Hamish was reflecting he had never before disliked the Detective Chief Inspector quite so much as he did at that moment.
‘I want ya tae go doon tae Inverness the morrow,’ said Blair, ‘and check out Jamie Ross’s alibi. The wedding was held at the Glen Abb Hotel on Ness Bank.’
‘But the Inverness police have already checked it out,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘There was a point at the wedding reception when no one can quite remember seeing him, but he didn’t have his car and he didn’t take the train or bus.’
‘Look, jist do as you are told, laddie. He was missing for a bit. See if anyone in Inverness saw him. And don’t argue. And leave the Land Rover. You can take the morning train.’
Hamish opened his mouth to protest and then thought the better of it. He would be out of Cnothan and away from the town and its residents, and he might be able to think more clearly.
He nodded and turned away and walked up the village street.
Jimmy Anderson was waiting for him outside the police station. ‘Any more whisky?’ he asked hopefully.
‘Aye,’ said Hamish. ‘But I would like ye to do something for me. Do it, and I’ll get you a bottle o’ the best malt.’
‘Okay. What?’
‘There’s a Xerox machine at the hotel. Run me off a copy of all the statements and bring them along with you.’
‘That’ll take me ages,’ grumbled Anderson.
‘Come on,’ said Hamish. ‘No statements, no whisky.’
‘I’ll see,’ said Anderson sulkily.
Hamish walked away, smiling. He knew Anderson would do almost anything for a free drink. He bought a bottle of whisky and went back to the police station.
Jenny was waiting for him outside. ‘Any chance of a cup of coffee?’ she asked.
She was wearing a dress, a soft red, clinging wool one, which moulded her figure. Her legs were not good, being much too plump and thick at the ankle. Hamish’s eye ran over her, looking for other physical imperfections to cool his rising lust, but the general effect Jenny presented was one of warmth and prettiness.
As Hamish made the coffee, he told her about going to Inverness in the morning.
‘Why?’ asked Jenny. ‘Surely that end has already been covered by the Inverness police.’
‘I think Blair wants me out of the way,’ said Hamish. ‘He’s anxious not to find the murderer.’
‘Why on earth . . .?’
‘Oh, he’s an odd man,’ said Hamish, remembering in time that he must not tell anyone about the lobsters.
‘Can I come with you?’ asked Jenny.
‘No.’
‘“No” meaning I am a suspect?’
Hamish tried to think of a gracious lie and failed. ‘Yes,’ he said.
‘Do you think I did it?’
‘I cannae say,’ said Hamish miserably. ‘I don’t really know you.’
She stood on tiptoe and kissed the end of his nose. ‘I thought you knew me pretty well.’
Hamish blushed and backed away.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Jenny. ‘Not when you’re on duty.’
‘It’s not that,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s just I need to keep my mind clear.’
She edged her chair round the kitchen table until she was next to him. ‘So I do disturb you,’ she said. ‘It wasn’t just a one-night stand.’
‘Of course not,’ said Hamish uneasily. ‘I am not in the habit of . . . I don’t . . . I . . . I . . .’
‘Don’t what?’ she giggled. ‘You’re blushing like a schoolgirl, Hamish.’
She stood up and went behind him and put her arms around his neck. He turned his head sharply around and pressed it into the softness of her breasts.
It was like being drunk, thought Hamish groggily an hour later.
They had been in the kitchen and next they were in his bedroom without their clothes on and he couldn’t even remember having removed one stitch.
‘You’re a bad man, Hamish Macbeth,’ he said aloud. Jenny let out a gentle snore. ‘A bad man,’ repeated Hamish. ‘Are you going to ask her to marry you? You should ask her to marry you.’
The sharp ringing of the bell at the policestation end jerked him upright.
‘Anderson!’ cried Hamish, appalled. He shook Jenny awake. ‘Jenny! Get up. It’s that detective, Jimmy Anderson. He mustn’t find you here.’
‘Macbeth!’
The police station had not been locked and Anderson had walked in.
Jenny was struggling into her clothes at the same time as Hamish. He jerked open the bedroom window. ‘Leave this way, Jenny,’ he said urgently.
He picked her up and lifted her through the window. ‘I’ll look after Towser for you while you’re away,’ whispered Jenny. ‘Bring him over tomorrow.’
‘Right.’
‘And give me a kiss.’
Hamish leaned through the window and kissed her.
‘I’ve got the papers, Macbeth,’ Anderson called. Jenny swung around in confusion. Not having found Hamish in the house, Anderson had decided to search the garden.
Jenny scampered off, not looking at the detective.
‘She chust called around to say hello,’ said Hamish. ‘Go round to the police station.’
‘Some hello.’ Anderson grinned. ‘Better fasten up your collar and cover that love bite.’
Hamish slammed the window shut.
When he got through to the police station, it was to find Anderson already seated at the desk with a sheaf of papers.
Hamish forgot his embarrassment, poured Anderson a drink, and then began to read the statements.
‘Far be it from me to tell you how to do your job,’ he murmured, ‘but you don’t seem to have been able to pin anyone down. Everyone in Cnothan seems to have been at The Clachan that Saturday night, but they can’t remember when they arrived, who was there, or when they left.’
‘Obstructive lot,’ said Anderson.
‘Oh, I’m with you there. But Blair usually gets you to bludgeon people so much they end up telling you something – anything concrete to get you off their backs.’
‘Grand whisky this,’ said Anderson.
Hamish looked at him sharply. ‘In other words, you’ve all decided it would be better not to find the murderer.’
‘I didnae say that,’ said Anderson, holding his glass up to the light and squinting at it.
/> Hamish turned over the statements. ‘Here! What was Mrs Struthers doing in The Clachan?’
‘Oh, her. Collecting for famine relief in the Third World. Evidently she turns up with her tambourine on a Saturday night because she knows the drunks will hand over their money easily.’
Hamish moved on to Jenny’s statement. He wondered that Blair had accepted it without comment. She had gone for a walk on Saturday morning with Mainwaring up to Clachan Mohr. They often went up there and took a flask of coffee. He had insulted her work. He had been laughing and smoking his pipe in between insulting her. She had smacked his face and knocked the pipe from his mouth. Then she had run away.
‘I’m surprised Blair has such sensitivity towards the artistic soul,’ said Hamish drily.
‘Meaning what?’ asked Anderson lazily.
‘Meaning Jenny Lovelace and Mainwaring.’
‘Och, all that stuff about artistic integrity and wounding her very soul? In Blair’s opinion, she’s a hot little baggage who was being screwed by Mainwaring and the affair turned sour.’
‘Watch your mouth!’ said Hamish furiously.
‘Keep calm, friend. I’m not saying it. I’m only saying how Blair said it.’ Anderson wondered whether to add that Blair had said that anyone who got into the sack with a daftie like Hamish Macbeth would open her legs for anyone, but decided against it.
Hamish fought down his anger. He was dismayed to realize he was furious because Blair’s nasty comments held the ring of truth. Mainwaring had been nearly sixty and hardly an Adonis. But he had been a well-built man, and that marriage-of-true-minds bit might have been very seductive to a woman like Jenny.
The door of the police station opened and Diarmuid Sinclair walked in. Anderson gulped down the whisky in his glass and, picking up the bottle, walked off with it.
‘You’re really coming out of your shell,’ said Hamish as the crofter sat down. ‘Gadding about like a two-year-old. I’m off to Inverness in the morning, so if you want me to save you a trip, I’ll buy that present for you. I’ve got to go to the Glen Abb Hotel to check Ross’s alibi.’
‘No,’ said Diarmuid. ‘I ha’ a mind to go masel’. While you’re there, book me a room at the Glen Abb, and see it has the telly and a private bathroom.’
‘And dancing girls? You’re living it up. What are you going to get young Sean?’
‘A train set,’ said Diarmuid dreamily, ‘wi’ wee houses and fields and tracks and all.’
‘Set you back a bit,’ said Hamish. ‘Not to mention the price o’ a room at the Glen Abb.’
‘I’ve a good bittie put by,’ said Diarmuid. ‘You jist book me the room for Friday night.’
After the crofter had left, Hamish drove over to Mrs Mainwaring’s and asked for a photograph of her husband. He had a vague notion of sending it down to London to Rory Grant on the Daily Recorder. The riots in Paris were over and the journalist might be able to find something out about Mainwaring from the newspaper files. He stayed as short a time as possible. The house and Mrs Mainwaring depressed him. Ashtrays were overflowing and dust had settled on everything, and Mrs Mainwaring had been well and truly drunk.
When he returned to the police station, he could see the lights shining from Jenny’s cottage. He wanted her again. A cynical voice in his head told him he could if he wanted. His conscience fought it down. Hamish did not believe in love without responsibility. One more night in her arms and then he really would have to propose to her.
He settled down to read the Xeroxed papers thoroughly. Along with the statements, there were reports on Mainwaring’s background from the police in the south. Mainwaring’s brother, a lawyer, had said that Mainwaring had borrowed large sums of money from him over the years and had never paid them back. He had ended up refusing to see him or communicate with him. Mainwaring’s two sisters said pretty much the same thing. Mainwaring’s parents were dead. He had inherited a tidy sum from them when he was still a comparatively young man. He had bought an hotel in Devon, but had seemed to run it like a sort of ‘Fawlty Towers’, insulting the regular customers. Three years later, he had declared himself bankrupt.
Then came the surprise. Mainwaring had been married twice before. One wife, the daughter of a garage owner, had divorced him, and the other, an elderly lady, had died of a heart attack. A police comment said that Mainwaring had a reputation for having great success with the ladies.
Hamish fished out the photograph of William Mainwaring and looked at it. The small prissy features set in the large round head looked out at him. Amazing, thought Hamish. No accounting for taste.
As the small train chugged out of Cnothan next morning, Hamish settled back in his seat and felt himself begin to relax. Cnothan and all its dark hates and enmities and Bible-bashing religion was losing its grip on him and he was journeying towards the light. That’s just what it was like, he thought. It was as if Cnothan was some science-fiction black mist that twisted and turned the minds of all who lived in it.
The train crawled its way round the hillsides, stopping and starting, finally picking up speed until at last it clattered over the points into Lairg station, the first civilized outpost in Hamish’s mind. The sky was turning light and the birds were chirping in the trees. He leaned out of the window and watched the man in charge of Lairg station bustling about. Hamish knew him of old. He was like a station-master in a children’s book, rosy-cheeked, white hair, kindly eyes twinkling behind spectacles, unfailingly helpful, unfailingly good-humoured.
Now Lairg, as Hamish remembered, was very like Cnothan in size and design. It, too, was the centre of a crofting community. But it was a bustling, cheerful, welcoming place.
The days were getting rapidly lighter. One long ray of sun struck the top of the station roof. There was a tinge of warmth in the air. That was the way of winter in the Highlands. It seduced you into thinking it had lost its grip and then came roaring back. The train moved off in a series of jerks, through Ardgay, Tain, Fearn, Invergordon, Dingwall, Muir of Ord, and on to Inverness.
The restless seagulls of Inverness were screaming overhead wÏhen he got off at Inverness station. The Tannoy was belting out a Scottish country-dance tune. Hamish was tempted to spend a day going around the shops, tempted to forget about the investigation. What on earth could he find out at this late date that the Inverness police could not? He was not wearing his uniform, correctly guessing that Blair had not warned the Inverness Police Department of this intrusion into their territory.
Inverness is the capital of the Highlands, crowded, busy, lively, and almost beautiful if you keep your eyes away from a big, grey, ugly modern concrete building that squats by the side of the River Ness and quite ruins the view of the castle.
It was past this architectural monstrosity that Hamish went, and then along Ness Bank to the Glen Abb Hotel.
The hotel had been created out of two large Victorian villas. The clever owner had kept the cosy Victorian effect with large overstuffed armchairs and log fires. The chef was French and the prices as high as those in a West End London restaurant, but the owner, Simon Gaunt, knew there was a lot of money in and around Inverness and not too much to spend it on in the way of entertainment.
He was in his office when Hamish arrived. He was a very thin, tall Englishman as gaunt as his name, wearing full Highland dress.
‘The tourists like it,’ he said, fidgeting with the hem of his kilt, although Hamish had made no comment.
Hamish explained that they were still trying to find out if Jamie Ross had been missing from the reception for enough length of time to get to Cnothan and back.
Simon Gaunt shook his head. ‘Damn near impossible, I would say,’ he said. ‘The police have already asked me the same question and interviewed the waiters and other members of the staff. He went out for about an hour. Mr Ross said he had drunk too much and needed to clear his head. He said he walked up and down by the river for quite a while, until he felt sober enough to go back. But you know that. He evidently made a state
ment to that effect.’
Mr Gaunt poured himself a cup of coffee from a Thermos jug on his desk. Hamish sniffed the air and then looked at the hotel owner hopefully. The hotel owner stared back and put the top firmly back on the jug without offering Hamish any.
Hamish sighed inwardly. That’s the English for you, he thought. He meant the southern English, the residents of Cumbria, Yorkshire, Lancashire, and Northumberland not really qualifying.
He fished in the pocket of his sports jacket for his notebook. He might as well take down some notes and type up a report for Blair to show he had been working. The photograph of William Mainwaring, which had been tucked between the pages of his notebook, fell out and slid over the desk to land in front of Mr Gaunt.
‘Oh, are you after Mr Williams as well?’ asked the manager, peering at the photograph.
‘That’s the dead man,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘William Mainwaring.’
Mr Gaunt fished in his sporran and brought out a pair of spectacles that he popped on his nose. He picked up the photograph again and then grinned. ‘Well, I suppose Williams is better than Smith.’
‘You mean Mainwaring was calling himself Williams? Not Smith? You mean he had a woman with him?’
‘And what a woman,’ said Mr Gaunt. ‘I thought it was his daughter at first.’
Hamish thought of Jenny and his heart lurched.
‘When was this?’ he asked.
‘About a month ago. They checked in for one night.’
‘He was married,’ said Hamish desperately. ‘How do you know it wasn’t Mrs Mainwaring?’ – although Hamish knew that no one would ever describe Mrs Mainwaring as looking like her husband’s daughter.
Simon Gaunt’s face took on a dreamy look. ‘She was like a Highland beauty dressed in Paris. Masses of shiny black hair falling to her shoulders, white skin, and the sort of mouth you dream about – full and sensual. She was wearing a cream wool dress with a white leather belt, black stockings, and scarlet high heels, those sandal-type with thin straps. They were in the dining-room for a long time. He was prosing on about something and she was looking at him with amusement, but she hardly said a word. I was in the dining-room myself that evening, for the Laird of Crochty was in. The laird likes to dine here.’
