by M C Beaton
“What’s wrong with ye?” demanded Hamish, his voice sharp with anxiety.
“Lung cancer,” said John. “Come ben.”
He stood aside. Hamish walked into the small cluttered living room. His eyes ranged over the place. He could not see a computer. John slumped in an armchair by the fireplace.
“How long have you known?” asked Hamish.
“Months,” said John wearily. “The chemo didn’t work. I’ve come home to die.”
“How long have you got?”
“Weeks, maybe months if I’m lucky.” There was an oxygen tank beside his chair. John fumbled with it and attached tubes to his nose.
“Why didn’t you tell me, man? I don’t see a computer.”
“Fact is, Hamish, I never learned how to use a computer and my old associates, them that aren’t dead, couldn’t help me.”
“But the wasted time? You should have said something. Why didn’t you?”
“I did try my best. It took my mind off my troubles. I felt important. I told the neighbours I was working for the police.”
“Are you getting home help?”
“Yes, I’ve got a carer. She’s off at the shops and the doctor calls regularly.”
There was silence. The oxygen machine sent out a rhythmic clicking sound. John lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Hamish curbed his temper. He could hardly shout about the wasted time, not when the poor man was dying.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll be off.”
John opened his eyes and said faintly, “Do you think there is a God?”
“Maybe,” said Hamish, but once outside he muttered to himself, “Not right now, I don’t.”
Hamish drove to police headquarters in Strathbane, confident that at least he would not run into Blair as, last heard, the man had still been suspended. Jimmy was not around so Hamish went to Jimmy’s favourite pub and found the detective sitting at a table in the corner.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” snapped Hamish, who was still furious over the time John McFee had wasted.
“I’m on my break,” said Jimmy mildly. “Sit down and stop looming over me.”
“Any news on Scots Entertainment?”
“It’s controlled by a company registered in the Ukraine. That’s as far as we’ve got. How’s your expert getting on?”
Hamish told him about John McFee.
“Poor auld sod,” said Jimmy. “Never mind. Your telly appeal has galvanised the experts and we should get something soon, but thae shell companies are the devil.”
Hamish sat down, removed his cap, and put it on the table. “I’ve been thinking, Jimmy.”
“Bad sign. Have a drink.”
“I’m driving. I’ve been thinking that say those four men were involved and got cheated out of some really serious money. It must have been some sort of big scam, and I think the clue lies in Edinburgh. Maybe it was something other than that gold mine. Now, I mind there’s a businessmen’s club there, called the Merlin. I wish I could get in there.”
“Aye, and if one of the famous four is there as well and spots you, you might not get back to Lochdubh in one piece.”
“I could go in disguise. I’m a rare hand at the disguises.”
Jimmy looked cynically at Hamish’s flaming red hair. “I could spot ye a mile off. Forget it, Hamish. Remember the tongue twister? The Leith police dismisseth us? It’ll be nothing to what Edinburgh police’ll do if you poach on their territory. There’s already been rumblings about you snooping around the Canongate and Scots Entertainment without telling them. They learned about that somehow.”
“Just an idea,” said Hamish vaguely. “Let me know as soon as you get anything.”
Back at the police station, he phoned David Harrison, who owned a large factory outside Edinburgh which manufactured goods for the tourist trade. David had once been on holiday in Lochdubh, and they had spent some time fishing together.
Hamish explained that he’d like to disguise himself as a wealthy businessman, Scottish but visiting from Canada, to get an entrée to the Merlin Club. “I could take you along tomorrow for lunch and get you booked in as a temporary member,” said David. “I’m busy at the moment, but meet me there and tell me all about it tomorrow.”
When he had rung off, Hamish rang Elspeth. “We’re just about to leave,” she said.
“I want the services of your make-up artist,” said Hamish. He rapidly told her his plan.
“That sounds exciting. We’ll hang on. I’ll tell them it’s for amateur theatricals.”
At the hotel, he spoke to the manager first. “Does Priscilla’s uncle, Bartholomew Smythe, still keep some of his stuff here?”
“Aye, it’s in a trunk in the basement.”
“Priscilla,” lied Hamish, “said it would be all right if I borrowed a few things.”
“Go ahead. Here’s the key to the cellar. It’s the big black steamer trunk in the corner. What are you up to?”
“I’ll tell you when it’s all over.”
In the cellar, Hamish selected two suits and a tuxedo, two shirts, and two pairs of shoes, grateful that the uncle took the same size in footwear. He left them all in reception, then phoned Elspeth and said he was ready. He finally emerged from the ministrations of the make-up artist with black hair, a thin black moustache, a large pair of spectacles, and pads to pump up his cheeks.
Back at the police station, he phoned Willie at the restaurant and begged him to take care of Sonsie and Lugs on the following day.
The next day, with his now black hair carefully brushed and then pads making his face look fatter and with a pair of glasses with plain glass, he put on a beautifully cut tweed suit and brogues. The suit looked as if it had been tailored for him. Now for Edinburgh, he thought.
David Harrison stared in amazement at Hamish. “I wouldn’t have recognised you! Now, what’s it all about?”
As Hamish told him, his eyes ranged over the other diners. The club was situated in Charlotte Square in the New Town. Expensive men in expensive suits, Rolex watches, well-fed faces, discreet murmur of voices.
“See anyone?” asked David.
“No,” said Hamish, thinking miserably that it had all been a waste of time and effort.
“You keep talking about four men. Why don’t you give me their names? I might recognise one of them.”
“John Sanders, Charles Prosser, Thomas Bromley, and Ferdinand Castle.”
“One of those names rings a bell. Stop looking so miserable and eat your steak and let me think.”
David was a very small man, just five feet tall, with thick brown hair and a clever face: shrewd little black eyes with deep pouches under them, a sharp beak of a nose, and a long mouth.
“I’ve got it! Bromley. The men’s outfitters. He’s just opened a store in Frederick Street. You know the street. It cuts across Herriot Row.”
“How can I meet him? I can’t spend too much time away from my station.”
“Trouble is, I don’t know the man.”
“Can you find out where his office is?”
“Wait. I see Johnny Heather over there. He knows everyone and everything.”
David was gone only a few minutes.
“His office, as far as Johnny knows, is in his shop. He doesn’t know the number of the shop but if you take a walk along Frederick Street, he says you can’t miss it. What will you do?”
“I’ll go and talk to him. Say I own fish farms in Canada and I am bursting with wealth to invest. See what happens. I might need to stay overnight.”
“I’ve got a wee flat in Abercrombie Place. I’ll take you round there after lunch. You can use it if you’re stuck in town. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. It might be a lady.”
“Aha, that’s why you’ve got a wee flat in town. Does the wife know?”
“God forbid.”
When lunch was over, they walked to Abercrombie Place. Hamish had brought an overnight bag just in case. David handed him the keys.
“Let’s have a look at you again. Hamish, that’s a cheap watch.”
“So? I’m an eccentric billionaire.”
“Borrow my Rolex and don’t lose it. It’s an oyster and you could buy a wee house for the price o’ that. Good hunting and let me know how you get on.”
The day was fine. Hamish suddenly thought of Priscilla and wished they were walking together through this most beautiful of cities. Hard to imagine, here in the centre, that there were grim crime-ridden housing estates on the outside of the charmed Georgian New Town.
He found the clothing store. The prices were very high. The name BROMLEY was in thick gold letters above the door. He pushed open the door and walked in. A male assistant in a kilt of one of the gaudier tartans minced forward. “Can I help you, sir?”
“Just looking around,” said Hamish. Because of the pads in his cheeks, his voice did not sound like his own.
“Do look at our new suede jackets,” urged the assistant. “They’re to die for.”
“I hear you’ve just opened,” said Hamish. “I’m over from Canada and I’m looking for good investments. I heard Mr. Bromley was a shrewd businessman. I just had lunch at the Merlin Club and his name was mentioned.”
“As a matter of fact, Mr. Bromley is in his office. I’ll call him.”
After a few minutes, Thomas Bromley bustled in, as fat and cheerful as Hamish remembered him, the smile on his small mouth, however, never reaching his watchful, assessing eyes. Like his assistant, he was dressed in a kilt and ruffled shirt under a velvet jacket. The kilt, reflected Hamish, only looked good when worn by sturdy men with good legs. Chubby as he was, Bromley had stick-like legs.
He rubbed his hands. “I hear you are interested in investing. Why don’t we go over to the pub and have a chat.” His eyes swept over Hamish’s expensive suit and flicked a glance at the expensive Rolex on his wrist.
They walked to a pub and entered into the beer-smelling gloom. Hamish ordered whisky and Bromley said he would have the same.
“And who do I have the honour of addressing?” he asked.
“I’m Diarmuid Jenkins the Third,” said Hamish. “My mother was highland and my father was Canadian. I own several fish farms and other businesses. I always regard Scotland as my home country.”
“That’s fine. Are you interested in the clothing business?”
“Not really. I was thinking more of something like the restaurant business.”
“Now, there’s a thing. I happen to have an interest in restaurants. I am the main shareholder in a chain of restaurants.”
“In Scotland?”
“Not yet. But thinking of expanding. My company is called Britfood. My restaurants are very successful. Look, a friend of mine has a better head for business than I have. Why don’t we all meet up for dinner at the Merlin Club tonight and discuss things over a good bottle of wine? Say, eight o’clock?”
“I’d like that,” said Hamish. He gave a rather vacant laugh. “Back home I’ve a good manager although he annoys me by saying that if the running of things was left to me, we’d be broke tomorrow. I want to show him I can do things for myself.”
“That’s the ticket!” said Bromley, rubbing his chubby hands. “You’ll show him by the time I’m finished with you.”
As he got ready for the evening, Hamish thought he would be glad when the masquerade was over. The pads in his cheeks were uncomfortable and the glasses were pinching his nose. He put on Priscilla’s uncle’s evening suit and set out for the Merlin Club, phoning Willie Lamont before he left to say that he’d been delayed.
He had not been frightened before in his dealings with Bromley, but when he walked into the club and saw Charles Prosser sitting there he suddenly felt a frisson of fear. His highland sixth sense picked up danger. Prosser hailed him, all bluff and hearty and with a crushing handshake. Hamish proceeded to play the rather pompous idiot very well, carefully instilling into their brains that his excellent manager was the one with the business acumen. Then Prosser said, if “Diarmuid” didn’t mind, he had some papers to leave at his office. As they approached Prosser’s office, Hamish noticed a burglar alarm box over the door. Bromley poured Hamish a drink from a bar in the corner. At one point, Prosser excused himself and opened a safe in the wall. Hamish had turned on a little tape recorder in his pocket and recorded the clicks.
“The best idea is for you to come round to my office tomorrow at noon,” said Prosser, putting some papers in the safe and shutting it again, “and we can all go through the business then. Here’s my card. But tonight’s for fun.”
When they moved to a pub after dinner, Hamish insisted on buying the first round. He went up to the bar and ordered double whiskies for both men and then said to the barman, “How would you like to serve me cold tea and keep the price of my drinks for yourself?”
“Right, mac. You’re my man.”
Hamish then proceeded to pretend he was getting very drunk. He slurred that he was determined to return to Canada with a good portfolio and slam it down on the desk of his manager.
The evening finally broke up. Hamish insisted on walking and lurched off down the street.
Once back at the flat, he took the pads out of his cheeks, dressed in a black sweater and trousers, assembled a housebreaking tool kit, set the alarm for two in the morning, and fell asleep.
Tam Tamworth was trying to sleep in one of the spare bedrooms at Milly’s house. Three times the evening before he had tried to summon up courage to propose marriage to Milly, but each time the words just wouldn’t come.
Suddenly he sniffed the air. There was a smell of smoke. Maybe Milly had left a pot on the cooker. He wrapped himself in a voluminous dressing gown and made his way downstairs. The smell was coming from the drawing room. He flung open the door. Coals and wood were blazing on the floor in front of the fire. He rushed into the kitchen, ran a bucket of water, ran back to the drawing room, and threw the water over the fire. It took another bucket of water to put the fire out.
He stood looking down at the blackened mess, scratching his hair. It had been a warm evening, and they hadn’t lit the fire.
Tam went up the stairs and opened the door of Milly’s bedroom. He shook her awake. “Did you light the fire, Milly?”
“What fire?”
“The drawing room.”
She struggled up against the pillows. “No, Tam. What’s up?”
“I’m getting the police. Someone tried to burn the house down.”
Milly put on her dressing gown and followed him downstairs. She let out a shriek of alarm when she saw the burned mess in the drawing room. Tam phoned Hamish but only got the answering service. He then phoned Strathbane. He was told to contact Hamish Macbeth but replied that he was not getting any answer from the police station at Lochdubh. Police Inspector Mary Benson was roused and told of the fire. She telephoned Jimmy Anderson and asked sharply where Hamish was. When he said he did not know, she told him to get over to Drim immediately. The Scenes of Crimes Operatives were already on their way.
Milly sat in the kitchen waiting for them to arrive, her face white with shock. Tam went up to his room and collected the diamond engagement ring. He returned to the kitchen and knelt down in front of Milly and took her cold hands in his. He mutely held up the ring box and looked at her with pleading eyes.
Milly opened the box. “Will you marry me?” asked Tam in a hoarse voice.
A faint pink suffused her pale cheeks and she said shyly, “Oh, yes.”
He stood up and leaned forward to kiss her when there came a hammering at the door.
“Damn,” he muttered and went to answer it.
At first Hamish thought it was his alarm and then realised it was his mobile phone. Jimmy was at the other end. “Where the hell are you? Someone tried to set the captain’s house on fire.”
“Is Milly all right?”
“Yes, fortunately Tamworth was staying there and got the fire out in time. Why aren’t you at the station?”
“I’l
l tell you when I get back. Cover for me. Tell them one of my family’s been taken ill.”
“You’re in Edinburgh, you daft loon!”
“Help me, Jimmy. I’ll come back with the murderer.”
“This once. Just this once.”
Hamish made his way through the quiet streets. When he got to Prosser’s office, he looked carefully to left and right but did not see anyone. He took out a bunch of skeleton keys and got to work. It took him half an hour to unlock the door. A burglar alarm let out a shrill noise. He wrenched open the control box and cut the wires. He had noticed earlier that fortunately there were no CCTV cameras covering the entrance. He sat and waited in case he heard the police arrive and had to make a quick getaway.
After a quarter of an hour, he entered Prosser’s office. With a pencil torch between his teeth, he searched the desk but did not find anything incriminating. He went to the safe, took out his tape recorder, and listened to the clicks. It took him half an hour to get the right combination. The safe swung open. He found a file of letters, two thick ledgers, and piles of banknotes. He took out the ledgers and laid them on the desk. Here were lists of all the companies. He risked switching on an Anglepoise lamp. Taking out a camera, he photographed page after page. Then he opened the file of letters. There was one from the late Captain Davenport saying that he could make them all a fortune. He had employed a geologist, and rich seams of gold had been found in Perthshire. But he needed funding for mining equipment. He would put up most of the money himself but would need an extra five hundred thousand pounds and in return he would make Prosser a majority shareholder. Hamish photographed that as well.
When he had finished, he returned everything to the safe. Before he closed the door, he stared at all that money. He took two plastic bags out of his pocket and stuffed both bags full. May as well make it look like a robbery, he thought, because Prosser would discover the wires on his burglar alarm had been cut.
He let himself out and walked back to the flat. What do I do now, he wondered. If I just disappear, they’ll get hold of David Harrison and sweat my real identity out of him.
