Death of a Chimney Sweep

by M C Beaton

  “Aren’t you worried? One of them could be a murderer.”

  “I’m off to Zagreb in the morning.”

  Hamish took out a battered wallet and extracted two twenty-pound notes and a ten. Stefan snatched them and ran out of the café. Hamish hurried after him but when he got outside, Stefan appeared to have disappeared into thin air.

  The four wives got together for drinks that afternoon. “Did you tell your husbands?” asked Sandra.

  “Not yet,” said Mary Bromley.

  “Don’t let’s,” said Sandra. “It’s not safe. I think we should all keep quiet.”

  Reluctantly, the others agreed.

  Hamish Macbeth walked round to the back of the restaurant and studied the staircase. There was no CCTV camera. There was now possibly a fifth man involved, one who perhaps took the place of whoever it was had gone to Scotland to murder Captain Davenport.

  He experienced a feeling of relief. One of the four must have committed the murder, which left the locals clear of suspicion. Now he had to head north and try to pass on what he had learned without betraying that he had strayed out of his area.

  As soon as he got back to Lochdubh, he called Jimmy and told him to come to the police station in the morning. He locked up his sleepy hens, refused to feed Lugs who was getting fat even though the dog banged his feeding bowl on the floor, showered, and went to bed. But he did not fall asleep immediately. If Sandra Prosser told her husband of his visit, then Charles Prosser might complain to the Guildford police, and then one highland police sergeant would be in trouble. But if one of the men was a murderer and the others were hiding the fact and colluding with him, then Hamish doubted the Guildford police would learn anything. What about those masks, though? Britain had more spy cameras on its streets than any other country. Surely the men had been questioned about the masks.

  Jimmy arrived at ten in the morning, his blue eyes bloodshot and his clothes looking as if they had been slept in.

  “Hard night?” asked Hamish.

  “Don’t want to talk about it,” mumbled Jimmy. “What gives?”

  Hamish described what he had found in Guildford. Jimmy groaned and clutched his head. “What am I to do with all this?” he demanded. “Poaching on Guildford’s territory.”

  “Never mind. I’ve got a nice anonymous letter all written out for you. I want you to phone Guildford and the police at Gatwick airport and stop Stefan Loncar from getting on that plane.”

  “He may already have gone.”

  “I checked. It’s due to leave at noon today.”

  “Right. Give me the letter. I hope there’s no fingerprints and no DNA.”

  “Of course not. Your name’s been mentioned in the press so I put it on the envelope. Off you go. Oh, there’s one thing. Why weren’t the police suspicious about those masks the men were wearing?”

  “It never came up. The camera focussed on the front of the restaurant wasn’t working. And if, as you say, they went up a back stair, it doesn’t matter anyway.”

  When he had gone, Hamish switched on his computer and studied the little information he had about the four men. Thomas Bromley ran a chain of clothing stores. But did he have other businesses? Was Timothy’s one of his? If that was the case, it would explain why Timothy was prepared to lie for him. Timothy had claimed in a statement to Guildford police that he was the owner. Hamish Googled a list of Guildford restaurants, and his hazel eyes gleamed. Timothy’s was not listed, and yet he had a feeling in his bones that it was owned or part owned by one of the men. He needed a business expert to search company directors and find what other companies might belong to the men and if they had any connection with Scotland.

  Prosser’s supermarkets were called Foodies but all of them were in the south of England. There was no connection, then, with Scotland.

  Hamish had a feeling that the captain had actually got much more money out of one or all of them for some scam, more money than they claimed to have lost. The lawyers’ letters from the four had all been dated last year. Maybe the captain had come up with a get-rich-quick scheme for them. Persuading them that it was so good that they could not only recoup their losses but gain a fortune. From people like Angela and Edie and Caro, he had gathered that the captain had been superb as a con artist.

  He went out for a walk and met Angela Brodie on the waterfront. Her thin face was alight with excitement. “Hamish, my publisher thinks my book might be nominated for the Haggart Prize.”

  “That’s grand, Angela. What’s it about?”

  “Oh, the usual this and that.”

  “Like what?”

  “Oh, Hamish, literary books are so hard to describe.”

  “Try me.”

  “Oh, there’s Mrs. Wellington. I must ask her about something.”

  Hamish studied her retreating figure suspiciously. He suddenly felt sure that Angela’s novel was based on Lochdubh, maybe a thinly disguised Lochdubh. He was in the clear because writers only brought policemen into detective stories, and detective writers never got literary awards.

  He rubbed his face and neck with midge repellent because the day was soft and damp and those Scottish mosquitoes were out in force. A thin line of mist lay across the forest on the opposite bank. Two seals struggled onto a rock by the beach and stared at him with big round eyes. He turned away. A little part of his brain was superstitious and believed the old stories that the seals were dead people who had come back.

  He collected his dog and cat and drove to Drim. He let them out on the beach to play and went to Milly’s house.

  Hamish frowned when he recognised Tam’s car parked outside. He didn’t quite trust Tam or, for that matter, any other reporter except Elspeth. He wanted to phone Elspeth and ask her if she knew any business expert but—remembering the fate of Betty Close—decided he might be putting her in danger.

  Milly answered the door. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. “Come in, Hamish. You’ll find Tam in the kitchen.”

  “I would like a word with you in private. Did your husband leave any business papers? Did the police take them away?”

  “Apart for bank statements and bills and things like that, there wasn’t much else.”

  Tam appeared in the doorway. Hamish had a sudden idea. “Tam, do you know anyone expert enough to dig into company registers and find maybe hidden companies?”

  “Why?”

  “I can’t be telling you the noo but if you help me, you’ll be the first to get the news if anything breaks.”

  Tam scratched one of his large ears. “I mind there’s a retired businessman up at Craskie in a wee white cottage called Cruachan just on the left as you approach the village. He’s called John McFee.”

  “Thanks. I’ll try him.”

  Hamish drove off and took the coast road to Craskie. He spotted the cottage easily. An elderly gentleman with white hair was working in his front garden.

  “Mr. McFee,” called Hamish.

  “Aye, that’s me.”

  He straightened up from weeding, groaned, and clutched his back. “Age is a terrible thing, laddie. How can I help you? I can’t be frightened at the sight of a policeman because there’s simply no one left in my life I care about.”

  Will I be like this some day? wondered Hamish. Will there be anyone in my life to care for me?

  He stood with one foot raised and his mouth slightly open.

  “Don’t stand there, looking glaikit,” said John. “Come ben the house. The midges out here are eating me alive.”

  Hamish followed him in to a book-lined living room. There was a peat fire on the hearth and several good pieces of furniture. “Sit at the table at the window,” ordered John, “and I’ll get us some coffee. I don’t like these coffee tables. Can’t stand bending over to drink coffee. Listen to that. The wind’s rising. I hope it blows those damn midges out to sea. Do midges have a natural predator?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hamish. “I’ve never really thought about it.”

  “
I’ll get the coffee.”

  Hamish took off his hat and put it on the floor at his feet. The cottage was on a slight rise and afforded a good view of the sea. A patch of blue sky was forming to the west, and seagulls wheeled and dived over the rising waves.

  His eyes began to droop and he fell suddenly asleep, waking only when John put a tray of coffee and biscuits on the table.

  “Sorry,” said Hamish. “A bad night.”

  “So what brings you?” asked John, pouring coffee. There was no evidence of central heating, and the fire gave out little heat. He was wearing two sweaters and thick trousers.

  “I need your expertise,” said Hamish. “You’ll have heard about the murders.”

  “Yes, bad business.”

  “I want to tell you what I know about four men and then hope you can somehow find out which companies they own, particularly if one of them has an umbrella company that covers the fact that he owns a restaurant in Guildford called Timothy’s.”

  “Won’t your headquarters have experts?”

  “Not that I know of. There’s another thing. The four men sent lawyers’ letters to the captain, but the demands for repayment did not involve a great deal of money. To have killed Captain Davenport in such a vicious rage leads me to believe that he scammed a great deal of money for some venture out of all of them. If you agree, I will arrange some form of payment for you from Strathbane.”

  John sighed. “I’m so bored these days, I would do it for nothing.”

  “I want you to be very careful,” warned Hamish. “Don’t get close to any of these men or their business. One of them, I am sure, is a murderer.”

  Back at the police station, Hamish waited and waited to hear from Jimmy. “I’m coming right over,” said the detective. “Blair’s furious. He wanted it to be one of the villagers. He says the letter is just mad spite but Daviot has sent it off to Guildford. See you soon.”

  Jimmy arrived just as the wind had risen to a full gale. “How you can live here beats me,” he complained. “Why is it so cold? It’s summer.”

  “Global cooling,” said Hamish. “What have you got?”

  “First of all, something bad. Stefan Loncar was booked on the noon plane to Zagreb but didn’t turn up. They searched his flat. He had packed up but there was no sign of him.”

  “Someone must have spied me talking to him,” said Hamish.

  “Maybe. The four suspects have been brought in for questioning. They lawyered up immediately. It’s English law, see? They don’t need to wait until we allow them lawyers.”

  “What about the masks? And what fancy dress party were they going to?”

  “They now say there wasn’t any party. They’d been watching the Iraq inquiry and they had these Tony Blair masks and thought it would be a bit of a hoot to wear them. They are all members of the Rotary Club and the Freemasons and you name it. Guildford said they had to let them go.”

  Hamish told him about his visit to John McFee.

  “Now, there’s a thing,” said Jimmy. “I wanted to hire an expert but Blair blocked it. Says we haven’t the funds.”

  “Well, if McFee comes up with anything, you’d better get your chequebook out,” said Hamish. “I not only want to find out how much Davenport tricked them out of, I want to know if they have any connection to Scotland, Edinburgh in particular. Oh, and did they question Timothy again?”

  “Yes, he swears blind the four men are regular customers and salt of the earth. His real name is Andreas Gristedes. Greek by birth. How soon can your expert come up with anything?”

  Hamish groaned. “Probably a month or so. It isn’t the telly where some geek flicks through a computer and says, ‘Aha!’ Why haven’t you asked for whisky?”

  “Drying out.”

  “About time.”

  “So we have to wait.”

  Chapter Eight

  In married life three is company and two none.

  —Oscar Wilde

  Hamish called on John McFee the next day, anxious for some sort of a result.

  “It’s difficult,” said John. “I’ll let you know when I’ve got something. You see, you can hide names of any partners. It depends on what kinds of partners you have. For example, you can have active partner, ostensible partner, silent partner, secret partner, dominant partner, and limited partner. You can also pay to have the names of the partners in the company hidden.

  “Then if it’s that secretive, say for hiding companies or laundering money, you could set everything up in Greek Cyprus or Ukraine. I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything.”

  When he left John, Hamish stopped on the road back to Lochdubh and called Jimmy. “My expert’s proving slow,” he complained. “Surely you’ve got your own man on it.”

  “Fact is, the whole business has gone on the back burner,” said Jimmy. “We’ve got illegal cigarette smugglers and drug smugglers and God knows what other mayhem. The press have forgotten about your case, so the pressure’s off.”

  When he had rung off, Hamish sat scowling. He got down from the Land Rover and let the dog and cat out. “Go and play on the beach,” he said. He phoned Elspeth in Glasgow.

  “I’m in my dressing room,” said Elspeth. “I’ve only got a few minutes.”

  “It’s like this,” said Hamish. “Strathbane have dropped investigating the captain’s death because the press pressure is off. Can you get it on again?”

  “I’ll try. Got to go.”

  When Hamish returned to Lochdubh, it was to find Angela Brodie pacing up and down outside the police station.

  “What’s up?” he asked. “No, you pair,” he shouted at the dog and cat. “You are not going to the Italian restaurant. Get inside. Sorry, Angela. But they’re getting ower fat.”

  “My husband’s got the norovirus.”

  “That’s bad. But he’ll be over it in three days.”

  “It’s not that. The Haggart dinner is tonight in Edinburgh.”

  “And?”

  “I don’t want to go alone,” said Angela feverishly. “Would you come with me?”

  “I think I could manage that. You’re in a right state, Angela. It’s not the Booker Prize. The Haggart people sell cakes.”

  “Hamish!” said Angela impatiently. “It’s one of the oldest literary awards. Haggart may manufacture cakes but they set up this award in Edwardian days and it’s been on the go ever since. I’m tired of being just a nominee. The first book was nominated for the Booker. The one before last for the Haggart. I’ve got to win.”

  “Angela, you never struck me as being ambitious!”

  “Now you know.”

  “Calm down. I’ll go.”

  “Oh, thanks. Mrs. Wellington is going to check on my husband. We have to be at the Caledonian Hotel for the dinner. It starts at seven o’clock. Can we leave in an hour, say?”

  “Won’t we be a bit early?”

  “It’s better to be early. I mean there could be sheep on the road, or a tractor, or fog.”

  Hamish looked up at the clear blue sky and then back down at Angela’s worried face.

  “I’ll be ready,” he said gently.

  Angela drove most of the way in silence, her knuckles white with tension on the steering wheel. The last time Hamish had seen her in such a state was when she was determined to be the perfect wife because of the malign influence of an incomer to the village. But ever since she had got over that, she had been her old self, gentle and unassuming and the worst cook in Sutherland.

  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.