“And you’re a daft silly old man,” said Dick wrathfully.
He got to his feet and strode to the door. “Tell Hamish Macbeth to look out for her,” called the seer.
Dick swung round. “Who? What woman?”
“I don’t know yet.”
“Stupid fraud,” muttered Dick and went out and slammed the door.
By the time he got back down to the police station, the rain Hamish had forecast was driving in horizontal sheets.
Hamish was sitting at the table reading the Highland Times. He looked at Dick’s distressed face, got up, took a bottle of whisky out of a cupboard, and poured him a dram. “What did he say to upset you?”
“He said Shona, that girl at the library, is engaged. He said the spirits told him.”
Hamish flipped the newspaper to the announcements and then silently handed it to Dick. He read that Shona was engaged to a man called Diarmuid Hendry.
In a funny kind of way, Dick felt a slow feeling almost of relief. His feelings for Shona had been growing into an obsession.
“I’d better get her an engagement present,” he said.
“Look in your cupboard,” said Hamish. “There’s a spare toaster there.”
Dick was about to protest that it should be something really special, but then he realised that a simple gift would do—a not-so-special gift from a not-so-special man.
“They’re draining that bog tomorrow,” said Hamish. “Want to come and have a look?”
“Maybe I’ll take the toaster or something over to Shona.”
“Wrap it up and post it,” said Hamish gently.
“All right. I’ll do that.”
By the next morning, the rain had stopped and a pale disk of a sun shone down on the cold countryside, where water dripped from the few trees and the air was full of the smell of peat smoke.
Dick loaded the inevitable picnic hamper into the back of the Land Rover, along with water and food bowls for the dog and cat.
Sonsie and Lugs now travelled in the passenger seat with Dick, Sonsie on his lap and the dog at his feet.
“Put the beasts in the back,” said Hamish.
“They don’t bother me,” said Dick placidly. “Sonsie’s like a fur rug and Lugs keeps my feet warm.”
When they arrived at the bog, the water was being drained off and a JCB stood ready to dig.
Jimmy stood at the edge of the bog, huddled in an anorak. “No Blair?” asked Hamish.
“He says it’s a waste o’ time.”
“Is there any connection between Murdo and Beryl Shuttleworth?” asked Hamish.
“Nothing that we can see. She says labour is hard to come by and she didn’t dig into the background of the Campbell brothers. Andy has a record but it’s only drunk and disorderly.”
Dick had opened the back of the Land Rover and was pulling out a picnic table and three canvas chairs.
“I see wifie ower there is well prepared,” said Jimmy.
Hamish scowled. If only Dick would fall in love with someone nearer his age and get settled, then he could get his home back again all to himself.
“Food’s ready,” called Dick. “I brought some for you, Mr. Anderson.”
They took their places at the table. Dick served up salmon steaks and salad with rolls he had baked. The dog and cat, on the heather at their feet, ate chopped lamb’s liver.
To Jimmy’s delight, Dick also had a bottle of Sancerre which he poured into crystal glasses.
“I tell you, Dick,” said Jimmy, raising his glass, “if Hamish ever throws you out, you can move in wi’ me.”
Elspeth Grant got an urgent call on her road north from Barry Dalrymple, the head of the news department. “There’s a report come in that they’re digging up some bog near the Seven Steps restaurant. Get over there instead.”
By the time Elspeth arrived, a group of press had already assembled. She went to join Hamish.
“What’s going on?” she asked.
“Just seeing if there are any bodies in there,” said Hamish.
“Like who?”
“Like I’m not telling you until it’s official—that is, if they do find anyone.”
Hamish looked down at her and felt a pang of longing. They had been engaged but that had broken up. I’ve been engaged to two women and it all came to nothing, he thought. Priscilla was too cold and Elspeth here went right off after we were engaged and had a fling with a male stripper.
Elspeth had got drunk down in Glasgow after having seen Hamish and Priscilla on camera, laughing and talking together. But although she had gone off with the male stripper, nothing had happened.
They stood together in silence and watched the digging.
Hamish left Elspeth and joined Jimmy. “Aren’t they being a bittie brutal shovelling away like that?”
“It’s not Richard the Third,” said Jimmy. “And it’s not an archaeological dig. And it’s bloody freezing. Let them get on with it before some tree huggers turn up and tell us we’re destroying the habitat of the red-breasted pushover or something.”
Night falls early in the winter in Sutherland. Arc lights were set up, and the digging went on. Up came some skeletons but they were of first a deer, and then a cat and dog. Other things like a supermarket trolley and an old fridge followed.
“Come away from the lights, over here!” called Dick suddenly.
Jimmy and Hamish rushed to join him.
“What?” asked Hamish.
“Look at the sky!”
They looked up. Above them the northern lights blazed and undulated and swam across the sky in all their green glory. Living so far north, Hamish had seen the aurora borealis before, but never such a fine spectacle as this.
Elspeth joined them and then the other members of the press.
Hamish glanced back to where the arc light shone down on the bog. The digger was lifting up another shovelful of earth when Hamish saw a leg dangling from the shovel.
“Hold it right there!” he called, running forward.
Plastic sheets were spread out, and the contents of the shovel tipped out onto them.
A peat bog is a great preserver. The body looked intact, but they had to wait for the pathologist.
A tent was erected over the body, which was covered in black mud from the bog.
Hamish paced up and down impatiently. Blair appeared on the scene. He glared at Hamish. “Get back to your station. There are enough of us here, laddie.”
“It was Macbeth’s idea that there might be a body in the bog,” said Daviot’s voice behind Blair. “He stays.”
“Right, sir. Anything you say, sir,” grovelled Blair.
At last, Daviot was called forward. He bent down and went into the tent. After a few minutes he came out again and went up to Hamish. “I recognise him. It’s that fellow Gonzales.”
“We’re still looking for thae Campbell brithers,” said Blair. “Should we keep digging?”
“I don’t think they’re in there,” said Hamish. “There’s every evidence that they committed the murder.”
Hamish drew Jimmy aside. “How many people have been charged with the trafficking?”
“Do you mean drugs or prostitutes?”
“Both.”
“It’s about over a hundred, and that includes the harbour master down at the docks. He’s screaming that he knew nothing about it, but, man, you should see his bank balance. He must have been taking hefty bribes.”
“Will I be needed when it gets to the High Court?”
“No, Hamish, we’ve got enough people to testify.”
“And enough to take the glory.”
“Aw, c’mon. You like to keep a low profile in case you’re promoted.”
“Yes, but I can’t help wondering why I never get a thank-you. How was Gonzales killed?”
“Wait a minute.” Jimmy walked over to Daviot. After a few minutes he came back to Hamish. “A blow to the back of the head that crushed his skull.”
When Hamish returned to the station, he w
ondered again about Beryl and the Campbell brothers.
It was such a loose end, and Strathbane would be too occupied in all the paperwork necessary to bring so many to justice. He decided to call on Beryl the following evening.
Hetty stared sourly at Shona’s diamond engagement ring. “The stone’s not very big,” she said.
“It’s a very fine diamond,” said Shona defensively. “You have to pay for quality.”
“Men!” Hetty gave a shrill laugh. “Is that what he told you? Anyway, I’m thinking I might get married myself.”
“Who to?”
“I think that little policeman, Dick, rather fancies me.”
Chapter Nine
By the pricking of my thumbs,
Something wicked this way comes.
—William Shakespeare
Hamish drove up to Beryl’s villa the following evening. She opened the door to him and looked in surprise at his well-tailored suit, white silk shirt, and tie.
“Why are you all dressed up?” she asked.
“I was hoping to take you to dinner. I have questions to ask you but I never called to welcome you to the area so this is a way of doing both.”
She hesitated a moment and then shrugged. “Why not?”
Hamish drove them to the Tommel Castle Hotel. He thought briefly of his dwindling bank balance and found himself hoping she was guilty of something so that he could charge the dinner on his expenses.
When they were seated at a corner table, Beryl eyed Hamish with some amusement. “I didn’t think a mere police sergeant could afford clothes like the ones you’ve got on.”
“There is a verra good thrift shop in Strathbane,” said Hamish.
To his relief, Beryl said she would stick to the set menu. She looked round the dining room. “Quiet tonight,” she commented. “The press must have given up.”
“They cannae report much until all the trials,” said Hamish.
The first course of venison pâté arrived. “What did you want to ask me?” said Beryl.
“I want to ask you again if you had any business dealings with Murdo Bentley?”
“That would make me a crook.”
“I didn’t mean that. I am sure he put some money into legitimate businesses.”
“No, all my own work. My husband was an estate agent in Ripon in Yorkshire. He died of cancer and left me the business. I wanted a change and the idea of the Highlands had always attracted me. So I sold up, came up to Strathbane first of all, bought some properties, and did them up for rental. But Strathbane is a dismal place so I decided to move here.”
“It can get rough in the winter.”
“So can Yorkshire,” said Beryl. “Maybe worse than here because you’re near the Gulf Stream. Now shut up for a bit and let me eat.”
Hamish waited patiently. The second course of fresh trout with sautéed potatoes arrived. She filleted her fish with the neat dexterity of a surgeon. “The food here is delicious.”
“Clarry, the chef,” said Hamish, “used to work for me as a police officer. He was a lousy policeman but a great cook so he changed jobs.”
He waited until she had finished and asked, “Tell me your impressions of the Campbell brothers?”
Those unfathomable black eyes of hers stared at him for a moment from under her hooded lids. Then she said, “Rough and ready. Good odd-job men. Did repairs. Cleaned gutters. Tidied up gardens. Things like that. I can’t tell you anything else. It’s not as if I socialised with them.”
Hamish found himself wishing Beryl was innocent of any crime. Although not precisely good looking, she exuded a strong air of sensuality and femininity. She was wearing a dress of soft green wool which clung to the curves of her figure, and her perfume smelt of roses.
Hamish reminded himself that a long stretch of celibacy could prove dangerous.
She stared at him over a generous dessert of chocolate cake soaked in Armagnac and covered in whipped cream. “Stop taking inventory of the goods,” she said. “What is the result? Are you wondering what I would be like in bed or whether I am capable of murder?”
“Both,” said Hamish. “And the one cancels out the other.”
“Pity.”
The waiter approached and put a foil-wrapped parcel on the table. “The usual from the chef,” he said.
Hamish thanked him. Beryl looked amused. “Is that another dinner for you?”
“No. I have a dog and a cat, and Clarry often gives me scraps for them.”
“I bet if anything happened to your pets it would be like losing children.”
“Something like that.”
Hamish took out his notebook. He had an iPad but still carried a small notebook around with him. “Let me see,” he said. “The Campbell brothers used to live in a council flat over at Bonar Bridge before they moved into one of your cottages at Burn Brae just outside Strathbane.”
“Which had to be cleaned because the previous renters were pigs.”
“They were Scottish, weren’t they? The Campbells?”
“As haggis.”
“As far as you know, these are their correct names?”
“How could I know any different?”
“You were their employer. They would have given you proof of identity.”
“Look, Hamish. I told you. It’s hard to get help. I paid them cash out of the business account and it was up to them to pay tax on it. Are you going to arrest me?”
“If I arrested everyone who was paying someone off the books in the Highlands, I’d need to book half the population,” said Hamish. “Did either of them have a wife or girlfriend?”
She waited until the waiter had poured their coffee. “Not that I know of.”
“There is no record of either of them having a bank account or credit cards.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” she said. “They’re probably long gone.”
“On one of the CCTV tapes from the restaurant, Murdo is shown stopping at your table to talk to you and yet you say you barely knew him.”
“Murdo liked to play the squire. He always stopped at a lot of tables. Asked me how business was going, that sort of thing.”
“And how is business? Can’t be any tourists at this time of year.”
“If I relied on the tourists, I’d go broke. I rent to students from the university and people from the electronics firm. I reduce the rental for long lets because it saves on cleaning and changing linen.”
Beryl finished her coffee. “Now, if you’ve stopped grilling me, I’d like to get to bed.”
He drove her to her villa and walked her to her door. “Thank you for dinner,” she said. She stood on tiptoe and kissed him full on the mouth. For one brief moment, Hamish responded, and then he pushed her gently away.
He got into his Land Rover and drove down the short drive to find the entrance blocked by a car. The barman from the hotel got out.
“Mr. Macbeth,” he said, “there’s a copper frae Strathbane breathalysing all the folk arriving or leaving.”
“I’ll park the Land Rover here, Paul,” said Hamish. “Give me a lift back to the hotel. I’d like to see who this copper is.”
When Hamish arrived in the car park, Colonel Halburton-Smythe, the owner, was complaining to a policeman Hamish did not recognise.
“Harassing my guests,” the colonel was shouting. “I’ll complain to your superior officer.”
“Leave it to me, Colonel,” said Hamish. He said to the policeman, “You’re on my beat. Who sent you here?”
“Detective Chief Inspector Blair,” he replied. He was a burly officer with a great round face and small piggy eyes.
“He said there had been bad reports.”
“Wait there,” said Hamish. “Go inside, Colonel. I’ll get to the bottom of this.”
He took out his mobile phone, checked his contacts, and phoned Superintendent Daviot at home.
Daviot listened to Hamish’s complaint. Hamish ended by saying, “Remember what happened to the last policeman
that Blair sent to snoop around.”
“But didn’t Mr. Blair contact you?”
“No, he did not. And Colonel Halburton-Smythe is thinking of suing you for harassment.”
“Put the officer on the phone.”
Hamish handed the phone to the policeman. He listened in glee to the “yes, sirs” and “only following orders, sir.”
The policeman gloomily handed the phone back to Hamish. “I will call Colonel Halburton-Smythe right away,” said Daviot. “I am afraid Mr. Blair is overzealous. What is the name of the policeman?”
“Name?” asked Hamish turning to the officer.
“Bert McAlpine.”
Hamish told Daviot the name. “Tell him to tear up any charges,” ordered Daviot.
He was about to leave and walk back to his vehicle when Hamish saw a television van parked near the entrance. He walked to the window of the bar and looked in. Elspeth was sitting with two men and a girl. He hurried in.
Elspeth gave him a rather bleak welcome. “Can we talk?” asked Hamish.
She rose reluctantly to her feet. He followed her into the hotel lounge where she sat down in an armchair by the window. Hamish sat opposite her. She looked at him accusingly, and a stuffed stag’s head on the wall of the lounge seemed to mimic her stare.
“What?”
“Did you file a story?”
“The body in the bog, yes. My researcher did some background on Eriskay for me. She did various interviews with the islanders. Martha was regarded as a harmless eccentric. I saw you in the dining room earlier but you were romancing some female as usual.”
“Thon woman is a suspect as far as I am concerned, that’s all.”
“Do you buy all your suspects expensive dinners?”
“C’mon, Elspeth. No one else suspects her so it was my way of finding out more about her.”
“The barman said you were snogging her.”
“She was kissing me and what the hell has it to do with you?”
Elspeth half rose from her seat and then sank down again with a reluctant laugh.
“Tell me all about it, Hamish. You always did need a Watson.”
Death of a Policeman (Hamish Macbeth) Page 14
