She was wearing a pretty, floaty sort of chiffon dress under her coat along with very thick make-up. Hamish was wearing a Savile Row suit which he had picked up in a thrift shop. The last time he had worn it was the last time he had met Priscilla for dinner. He had a sudden sharp longing to speak to her again.
As he had expected, they were too early by an hour so they went into the hotel bar. ‘Better keep to mineral water,’ cautioned Angela, ‘because there’ll be drinks at dinner and I want all my wits about me.’ She took a sheaf of notes out of her handbag and began to study them, her lips moving.
‘What’s that?’ asked Hamish.
‘It’s my acceptance speech.’
‘Angela! You’re taking all this too seriously.’
‘What would you know? You haven’t a single ambitious bone in your body.’
‘Aye, and I like it that way.’ Hamish suddenly wished the evening would be over.
At last, they went in for dinner. Angela and Hamish were seated at one of the round tables with her publisher, Henry Satherwaite, a thin female poet called Jemima Thirsk and her husband, and two Haggart executives and their wives.
The dinner was at last over and the chairman of Haggart took the podium. He droned on about the virtue of the firm’s cakes and then got down to the business of the evening.
‘We have five nominees: Jemima Thirsk for her poems, It Happened One Sunday, Simon Swallow for The Bastard of Bridgetown, Angela Brodie for The Bovary Factor, Sean Belfast for The End of Ulster, and Harriet Wilson for Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.
‘Our distinguished panel of experts have chosen the prizewinner.’ With maddening slowness he opened an envelope. ‘Get on with it!’ muttered Angela, polishing off her after-dinner brandy in one gulp.
‘The winner is – Harriet Wilson for Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.’
Angela turned chalk-white. Her publisher patted her hand. ‘Better luck next year,’ he whispered.
Harriet Wilson was a large woman wearing a beaded gown and with two feathers stuck in her elaborately dressed coils of grey hair. She fell over getting up to the platform, and it took two men to hoist her to her feet.
She blinked myopically at the audience and then vomited violently.
‘They’re always drunks,’ said Hamish.
‘Why do you say that?’ asked Henry.
‘Because it’s always a Cherokee grandmother. Never the Sioux or the Mohawk or the Cree. Very fertile lady that grandmother.’
‘You mean, she might have made the whole thing up?’
‘Maybe,’ said Hamish. ‘Oh, Angela, don’t take on so.’ For Angela was crying quietly. He put an arm round her and gave her a hug.
‘Did you see that?’ hissed Nessie Currie, gazing avidly at the television set. ‘I knew it. That Hamish Macbeth should be locked up. No woman is safe from him. And there’s poor Dr Brodie at death’s door. Shame!’
‘Shame,’ echoed Jessie.
‘No wonder herself is crying. It’s the shame o’ adultery.’
‘Adultery,’ murmured Jessie.
Dr Brodie was lying on the sofa, feeling like death. His ancient television had broken down right before the screening of the Haggart awards. He heard knocking at the kitchen door but felt too ill to get up so he shouted weakly, ‘Come in. It isn’t locked.’
And in came some of the villagers bearing cakes and whisky and flowers and home remedies, which they put down on the kitchen table. Mrs Wellington, who had been banished from her duties as doctor-sitter, nonetheless came in and looked sympathetically at Dr Brodie.
‘Did she win?’ he whispered.
‘I’m afraid not.’
‘What’s everyone doing in the kitchen?’
‘Folk are bringing you some things to make you feel better. Have you … er … read your wife’s book?’
‘Not yet. Angela doesn’t like me reading her stuff until it’s published. That’s an idea. There’s a copy over there. Hand it to me.’
‘Well, now, I think you should rest your eyes. I’ll just switch on the telly.’
‘It’s broken down.’
‘You need to be firm with these machines.’ Mrs Wellington brought her fist down on the top of the machine, and it flickered into life. ‘There! That’ll soothe you.’ She handed him the remote control.
Mrs Wellington tiptoed out. Dr Brodie looked at a programme where two men were beheading a third. He switched it off. He was feeling marginally better. Maybe now was the time to read his wife’s book.
* * *
Angela rallied for the book signing. To Hamish’s relief, she seemed to be signing quite a lot of books. He bought one himself and retreated to a quiet corner. As he read, his eyebrows practically vanished up into his thick flaming red hair. He skimmed through the book rapidly. It was the story of a bored doctor’s wife in a highland village who embarks on a steamy affair with the village policeman. The sex scenes were graphic. Either Angela had a vivid imagination or Dr Brodie was more of a stud than anyone could have guessed. He blushed all over. Angela’s ambition had made her blind to the effect her book would have on Lochdubh. Hamish could imagine the gossip spreading across the whole of Sutherland.
Henry Satherwaite came up to him. ‘Good book, eh? Are you from Lochdubh?’
‘I am.’
‘What do you do there?’
‘I’m the village policeman.’
Henry grinned.
‘No, I am not Angela’s lover, and this book is going to cause me one shedload of trouble,’ said Hamish. ‘I …’ He suddenly saw a familiar face. Simon Swallow, the author, was signing books, and sitting beside him, opening books for him to sign, was the receptionist from Scots Entertainment. She saw him and got to her feet. Hamish tried to catch her but she vanished into the ladies’ toilet. He waited outside, then opened the door and went in. Two women at the hand basins let out a screech of protest. Hamish flashed his warrant card before checking the cubicles. Then he noticed a blast of cold air. The room was L-shaped. He turned the corner. A window was standing open. He leaned out. There was a fire escape to the car park. As he watched, a black BMW went roaring off.
He returned to the signing and picked up a copy of Simon Swallow’s book. There was now only one woman in front of him. When it was his turn, Simon asked, ‘Who’s it to?’
Hamish showed his warrant card. ‘Who was that girl who was opening the books for you?’
‘Oh, Sonia. Where’s she gone and what do you want with her?’
‘Just a wee chat.’
‘She’s probably gone to the toilet.’
‘Sonia took one look at me and ran off and escaped out the toilet window. How do you know her?’
‘We met up in a pub this lunchtime and she offered tae come along.’
Hamish retreated to a corner of the room and phoned John McFee. ‘Concentrate on a firm called Scots Entertainment,’ he said. ‘There’s something fishy about it.’
‘Will do.’
‘And get back to me as soon as possible.’
He waited until Angela had signed her last book. ‘They’ve booked rooms here for us for the night,’ said Angela, ‘but I must get home.’
‘All right. But I’ll drive.’
In the car, as he drove off out of Edinburgh and took the long road north, Hamish said, ‘Angela, I don’t want to add to your distress, but have you any idea what’s waiting for us in Lochdubh? You wrote about a doctor’s wife having an affair with a policeman. You’re going to be damned as the whore of Lochdubh.’
‘But they all know me!’ wailed Angela. ‘They cannot possibly think—’
‘Oh, yes they can. Oh, dinnae greet. You must have cried a bucketful already,’ said Hamish heartlessly.
Angela snivelled, blew her nose, and said, ‘I must have gone mad. What’s it like, Hamish, to have no ambition whatsoever?’
‘It makes a man enjoy the day. Ambition can cause envy and resentment. Chust look at the mess you’re in. Try to get some sleep.’
* * *
As Hamish drove up the steep road which wound through the hills towards Lairg, he glanced in dismay at the petrol gauge. He hoped there was just enough fuel to get them home.
Then he saw the lights of a car coming up fast behind them. He had a sudden premonition of disaster before the car struck them and sent them crashing over the side of the road and down a steep brae. Angela’s little car hit a rock, somersaulted, and landed on its roof. Cursing, Hamish unfastened his seat belt and managed to get the door open. He heard his attacker roar off into the distance. He rolled out into the heather. He could hardly believe that he hadn’t broken anything. He went round to the passenger side and wrenched open the door. He unfastened Angela’s seat belt and eased her out. ‘What happened?’ she asked.
‘Have you broken anything?’
‘I think I’m all right. I feel so sick.’
‘Chust lie down in the heather away from the car. I don’t think it’s going to burst into flames but you never know.’
He phoned the police emergency number and demanded all the services fast: police, fire, and ambulance.
Then he phoned Jimmy Anderson’s mobile number and told a sleepy Jimmy all about the girl at the book signing and the attack on them. ‘Get the Edinburgh police to check immediately on Scots Entertainment and find that girl, Sonia,’ said Hamish. ‘Someone tried to kill us.’
‘Saw you on the telly at the awards hugging Angela. You sure it wasn’t Dr Brodie?’
‘He’s in bed sick and why would it be him?’
‘There was talk about the book. Seems your pal has written about a highland policeman rogering the doctor’s wife.’
‘Drop it, Jimmy. I swear to God it’s one of those four bastards. Any sign of Stefan Loncar?’
‘Not a one. His permit was about to run out so we think he may have gone into hiding.’
‘I think you should be looking for a body,’ said Hamish.
Hamish rang off when he heard sirens in the distance. First on the scene was the Lairg volunteer fire brigade. Hamish told them to leave the car where it was, as the Scenes Of Crimes Operatives would need to examine the whole place first. He was just about to ask them to take Angela to hospital when two police cars arrived and then a mountain rescue helicopter. Hamish insisted that Angela go to hospital as she was now feeling sick and was plainly in a state of shock. After she had been borne off, he made a full statement to the police and asked to be driven to Lochdubh. The scene was suddenly floodlit as a television team arrived.
Oh, the magic of television, thought Hamish bitterly as some of the police began obviously posing for the camera. He was glad to see the formidable figure of Police Inspector Mary Benson climbing out of the car. She shouted at the television crew to get back up on the road and stop compromising a crime scene or she would have them all arrested.
Hamish had to tell his story all over again. ‘And how come you recognized this girl and how did you know she worked for Scots Entertainment?’
Cautiously, Hamish explained that he had been escorting Angela to her publisher and he decided to pass the time by interviewing the neighbours in a close in the Canongate where Betty Close might have been last seen. The one neighbour in the flat under where a prostitute had been murdered had said he worked for Scots Entertainment so he had gone to have a look at their offices and it was there that he had seen Sonia.
‘I can’t understand all this and what led you to think that the death of a prostitute in an Edinburgh tenement should have anything to do with the murder of Captain Davenport. Give me a full report tomorrow.’
After she had read the news bulletin the next day, Elspeth went to her dressing room. What on earth was Hamish Macbeth doing? Was he having an affair with Angela? They had always been very close. Surely not. The door of her dressing room opened, and her boss walked in. ‘You’d best get up to Lochdubh,’ he said. ‘You know this copper. Great stuff.’
‘It’s hardly a great Hollywood-type scandal,’ protested Elspeth.
‘Come on. Madame Bovary in a wee highland village? Get going.’
Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, sitting at her computer desk in a London office, got a call from her father. ‘Heard the latest about Hamish Macbeth?’ he demanded and, without waiting for her reply, gave her a highly embroidered account of the scandal, ending with, ‘It was the best thing that ever happened when you broke off your engagement to Macbeth.’
‘He broke it off,’ protested Priscilla.
‘Thank goodness you’re well out of it,’ remarked her father.
Hamish was ordered by Daviot to stay locked inside his police station until headquarters drafted out a statement to defuse the scandal. Still shocked after the accident, Hamish stayed in bed, only rousing himself when he heard Jimmy’s voice on his answering machine saying he was outside the police-station door.
Hamish let him in and slammed the door in the faces of the press.
‘You look like shit,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but things are moving. Edinburgh police said the offices of Scots Entertainment were closed down. The man you took a photo of had been identified as Nick Duke, a villain who now seems to have disappeared. They raided the offices of Scots Entertainment and found it was a front for a brothel, but no girls were to be found and the safe was empty. That chap John Dean, who lived under where yon prostitute was killed, has vanished as well.’
‘Not much farther forward,’ said Hamish gloomily.
‘It showed you were right. It all ties together. So what the hell have you been up to?’
‘Nothing. Angela’s a dear friend. I could wring her neck for landing me in this mess.’
‘Cheer up. There’s good news.’
‘I could do with some.’
‘Angela Brodie woke up in the Raigmore Hospital in Inverness and who does she find sitting by her bed but Blair.’
‘What?’
‘He says she should get her revenge on you for leading her astray and wets his fat lips and asks for all the juicy details. Now, Angela’s got a wee tape recorder in her handbag and switches it on. She’d been taping the awards ceremony. “Explain yourself,” she says.
‘He says that everyone now knows that Macbeth had been getting into her knickers, and then his remarks got even cruder and dirtier. So when she thinks she’s got enough, she presses the buzzer and orders him out. Then she phones Daviot and plays the tape. Daviot hits the roof and suspends Blair.’
‘Where’s Angela now?’
‘She checked out and she’s back home.’
Hamish’s answering machine sounded again. Elspeth’s voice: ‘Hamish, I’m up in the fields at the back. If you open the kitchen window, I can get in that way. I know I can get you out of this.’
‘Daviot says you’re not to speak to the press,’ said Jimmy.
‘Oh, she won’t do anything I don’t want.’ Hamish opened the kitchen window.
After five minutes, Elspeth climbed in. She looked more like the Elspeth Hamish once knew rather than the sophisticated television presenter she had become. The day was damp and drizzly, and her hair was once more frizzy. She was wearing an anorak over a sweater and cords.
‘So what’s the latest?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘I’ve just been sent back up here.’
‘I have to stay locked in here and not speak to the press,’ said Hamish.
‘That’ll make things worse. I’m supposed to get you, Angela, and Dr Brodie together to make a statement and scotch this scandal. The public have only got to see Angela and her husband together with you to show everyone it’s all a load of rubbish.’
‘Daviot’ll go mad,’ said Hamish.
‘I’ll fix him. I’ll just use your office.’ She went into the police-station office and slammed the door.
‘Whisky?’ demanded Jimmy.
‘Aye, I could do with a dram.’ Hamish lifted down the bottle and put three glasses on the table.
He was just pouring when Elspeth reappeared looking triumphant. ‘It’s all fixed.’
‘Daviot is to appear with you. He loves the idea of being on television. He said he would be glad to let the matter be settled. He will give Angela all the help she needs provided she doesn’t sue them for Blair’s behaviour.’
‘So where’s the filming to take place?’
‘The Tommel Castle Hotel.’
‘And how do you get me and the Brodies up there without the other press crowding in?’
‘Daviot is sending a police car to take the Brodies to a private room at the hotel. I’ll have my crew already in there and set up. The press will follow, but they’ll be locked out.’
‘Then they’ll all write spoiling stories.’
‘Daviot’s bringing lawyers to have a word with them all afterwards. They’ll need to be careful.’
‘So how do we get there?’
‘Out the window, Hamish. I’ve got a four-wheel drive parked up in the fields. Also, you wanted press pressure on the police to solve the murders. Here’s your chance.’
Elspeth was glad she had brought a make-up artist with her because Angela looked a wreck. Her flyaway hair was even more dishevelled and her face was white and drawn. Dr Brodie had not quite recovered from his attack of the norovirus, and he looked weak and shaky.
Only Daviot looked happy, surrendering to the ministrations of the make-up artist and getting his silver hair brushed till it shone.
‘I think you should go first, Angela,’ said Elspeth. ‘Tell the folks about being a writer and how you used the local colour and your experiences of being a doctor’s wife.’
‘Must I?’ asked Angela in a low voice.
‘This scandal has to be stopped,’ said Elspeth. ‘Oh, I phoned your publisher. Sales of your books are good.’
‘They are?’
‘Right up there.’
Angela came over well. Heartened by the news of her sales, protective of her husband, she described how the plot had come about. She held her husband’s hand throughout.
Death of a Sweep Page 11
