Death of a Liar

by M C Beaton

  There was a countrywide search for the tattooed man called Laurent. Hamish tried several times to phone Jimmy but was always told the detective was too busy to answer his calls. The sad fact was that Jimmy felt Hamish had received enough glory; he wanted to be the one who caught Laurent.

  The press had given up trying to contact Hamish because Hamish had been ordered by Daviot to let headquarters handle all the media reports. Hamish was surprised that Superintendent Douglas had not phoned or called, not knowing that Douglas had been told that the police sergeant was recovering from the attack on him and was not to be disturbed. He was just sending off his final report when Priscilla walked into the police station.

  “I am so sorry, Hamish,” she said. “You would never have been attacked if I hadn’t told Dubois you knew where the drugs were.”

  “You’re forgiven,” said Hamish. “I was setting myself up as bait anyway. But the mad greed o’ the man! All he had to do was wait until the end of the meal.”

  “I don’t think he was French at all,” said Priscilla.

  “Why?”

  “When he was staying at the hotel, we were talking to some of the guests and they asked him if he was from Quebec. He was usually polite but he snapped at them that he had never, ever been there.”

  “We should ha’ guessed that,” said Hamish ruefully. “Gaunt came from Canada, as did the Leighs. I think Dubois, if that’s his real name, used small-time villains like the Leighs, or Southerns as their real name was, to get the drugs out with the help of Gaunt.”

  “Never mind. I’m sure Interpol or the Canadian police are on to that. I’ll take you for a soothing lunch. Does your head hurt?”

  A patch of Hamish’s red hair had been shaved and a plaster put on the wound.

  “Not now. Let’s go. I’m sick o’ this computer.”

  “Where are Sonsie and Lugs?”

  “Still with Dick. I’m going to Braikie tomorrow to pick them up.”

  They walked together along the waterfront. From the security of a rented car, Blair watched them go.

  Earlier that morning, Daviot had been landed with a suggestion from Police Scotland to close down the station in Lochdubh. He knew he would have to refuse, for Hamish held that incriminating photo of his wife. During a previous case, his wife had been drugged and photographed in a very compromising situation. Hamish had recovered the photograph and negatives for Daviot but had kept one back. He had told his boss that if his police station was closed down, then he would send copies of that dreadful photograph to all the newspapers.

  Actually, Hamish knew that when it came to the crunch, he would do no such thing.

  But with that photograph in Hamish’s possession, Daviot felt vulnerable. He sent for Blair.

  Blair came in, looking like a whipped dog.

  “I want you to do me a favour,” said Daviot. “You owe me. Remember, I still have the power to fire you.”

  “Anything I can do, I will do,” said Blair. “Anything for you, sir.”

  “Macbeth has an incriminating photo of my wife.” He quickly told Blair how Hamish had come by it and how he could not close down the police station until he got that photo back.

  “Leave it wi’ me, sir,” said Blair. “I know where he keeps the key to the station. I’ll watch when he goes out and I’ll get it for ye.”

  So Blair waited until he saw Priscilla and Hamish going into the restaurant and drove to the police station. As he was well known in Lochdubh, he knew none of the villagers would think his visit odd.

  He searched in the gutter above the kitchen door and grunted with satisfaction when his fingers found the key. Before opening the door, Blair listened hard. By asking around, he had found out that Hamish’s pets were still with Dick.

  He let himself in and got to work in the office, jerking open drawers in Hamish’s desk and spilling the contents onto the floor. A bottom drawer was locked.

  He went out to a shed where he knew Hamish kept his tools and returned with a chisel. He broke the lock, upended the drawer, and began to rifle through the contents of bankbooks, birth certificate, family photographs, and a small box containing an engagement ring. Then he saw that a manila envelope was pasted onto the bottom of the drawer. He ripped it open and let out a low whistle. The photograph of Mrs. Daviot at last.

  He seized it and fled the police station.

  Archie Maclean, the fisherman, had been on his road to the station with two fish for Hamish when he saw Blair’s flight. Alarmed, he hurried to the station and found the door open. He went in, calling, “Hamish!”

  Then he saw the office door was open and the mess of papers on the floor. He hurried out and went into Patel’s shop. “Anyone seen Hamish?” he shouted.

  “I saw him go past with Miss Priscilla,” said Patel.

  The restaurant, thought Archie.

  He ran along the waterfront and erupted into the restaurant.

  “Blair’s broken into your station and there are papers all over the floor.”

  “Wait here,” said Hamish to Priscilla.

  “No, I’m coming with you.” The three of them ran along the waterfront to the station.

  The first thing Hamish saw in his office was that upturned drawer with an empty manila envelope stuck to the bottom.

  “He’s got the photo,” said Hamish.

  Later that afternoon, Daviot looked uneasily at Blair. “You are sure you’ve got it?”

  “Yes, it’s safe and sound wi’ me. I could be doing wi’ a wee dram.”

  Daviot gave him an outraged look which Blair returned with a fat smile. He’s going to blackmail me until the ends of time, thought Daviot, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

  At the same time, Mary, Blair’s wife, was lifting up the mattress on their bed. She had crept to the door of the bedroom earlier on when her husband had returned and had wondered why he was being so furtive.

  She picked up the photograph and scowled at it. Mary did not have very good eyesight, but she did not even bother to put on her glasses. All she knew was that it was a pornographic photograph. Her husband’s drunkenness was enough but she wasn’t going to have him leering over porn.

  Mary took the photograph through to the fireplace, threw it in, struck a match, and watched it burn.

  The phone rang. “Hullo, Hamish,” said Mary, who felt she owed the police sergeant a lot. For hadn’t Hamish cleverly got her off the streets and into marriage with Blair? Other women might find Blair a horrible man, but Mary loved her home and respectable position and knew how to handle her husband.

  “Your husband stole an important piece of evidence, a photo, from my station,” said Hamish.

  “You mean thon dirty photo? I didn’t know it was evidence,” said Mary. “I burnt the thing.”

  Hamish began to laugh. “You’re a grand girl, Mary. Did you know who was in the photo?

  “No, some tart getting shagged.”

  “Forget about it,” said Hamish.

  Archie had gone. But Priscilla had heard the story. “Why didn’t he send it straight to Daviot?” she asked. “Why did you think to phone his wife?”

  “Because,” said Hamish, “a man like Blair would immediately think of the power that photo gave him over the boss. Poor Mr. Daviot. I’ll ring up and put him out of his misery.”

  “You and I are like brithers,” Blair was saying expansively when the phone rang. Daviot’s secretary, Helen, said, “It’s that man Macbeth on the phone. I told him you weren’t available but he said it was urgent.”

  “Put him on,” ordered Daviot.

  “I will be as brief as possible, sir,” said Hamish. “You sent Blair to break into my police station and steal that photograph. He hid it under the mattress at his home, where his wife found it. She did not recognise the subject. She thought it was porn and so she burnt it. You sent Blair. He did not wear gloves. I can charge him. Knowing that scunner, he will immediately start blabbing that he did it on your orders. You should recognise real loyalty and
stop trying to close my station down.”

  “Thank you, Hamish,” said Daviot meekly. Blair slowly put down his glass. When Daviot said Hamish instead of Macbeth, it meant he was pleased with him.

  “You silly drunken fool,” said Daviot evenly. “You didn’t wear gloves and now Macbeth has your fingerprints and evidence from the locals that you are guilty of burglary.”

  Blair grinned. “You’d better get him to hush it up. It isnae my arse that’s on the line.”

  “Stand up when you are addressing me!” roared Daviot. “Your wife found where you had hidden it, and thinking it was porn she burnt it.”

  Blair turned a muddy colour.

  “So get out of here and never, ever try to blackmail me again.”

  “I wasnae…”

  “Get out!”

  When Blair had gone, Daviot phoned Hamish. “Send me a bill for any damage,” he said. “Is there anything else I can do?”

  “Just be extra nice to Mary Blair. She puts up with a lot. Did Mr. Blair try to blackmail you, sir?”

  “Not in so many words, but the implication was there.”

  “Don’t worry, sir,” said Hamish. “I should ha’ never kept thon photo.”

  “As I live and breathe,” said Daviot, “you will keep your station.”

  After he had run off, Daviot called Helen in and, to her dismay, began to dictate a long letter explaining why the Lochdubh station must be kept open.

  When Hamish had finished the call, Priscilla looked at him doubtfully. “I’ve got a nasty feeling that you’re as bad as Blair, hanging on to that photograph.”

  “Sutherland needs a man like me on the beat,” said Hamish stubbornly. He was suddenly weary of the oh-so-beautiful, oh-so-untouchable Priscilla. “Come here and give me a kiss,” he said.

  “Don’t be silly,” said Priscilla. “I have got to go.”

  Blair erupted into his home and began yelling and shouting at his wife. Mary stared at him when she heard the photo had been that of Mrs. Daviot. “Okay, she was drugged and framed,” shouted Blair, “but I could ha’ got anything out o’ Daviot I wanted. I’m going to gie you the thrashing you deserve.” He raised his fists and advanced on her.

  Mary kicked him in the balls. Blair fell to the floor, groaning and writhing. His wife put on her coat and went out to do some shopping. Sometimes, she thought ruefully, husbands like hers were really hard work.

  The days slid past with no sighting of the elusive Laurent. Hamish began to think that he had maybe bribed someone up the coast to take him off in a boat.

  He missed Elspeth. He wanted to discuss the case with her and see if that odd intuition of hers could come up with anything. He was just reaching for the phone to call her when he heard a familiar voice calling, “Hamish!”

  He went through to the kitchen and there was Elspeth, smiling at him.

  “I was chust about to phone you,” said Hamish, the strengthening of his accent showing how excited he was at seeing her. “What brings you?”

  “Another crime documentary,” said Elspeth. “The last one sold well in America. I feel like a fraud. A team of researchers does most of the work and I just stand there in front of the camera with my arms folded, looking stern. I’ve been to Strathbane and done all the interviews. I’m afraid I haven’t got permission to interview you.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” said Hamish. “Have you any free time? I’d like to pick your brains.”

  “Yes. What do you want to do?”

  “It’s a grand day. Let’s go for a drive. I’ll take Sonsie and Lugs. They need the exercise. I think Dick fed them too many cakes and buns.”

  Elspeth noticed how the animals had come to accept her. It’s almost as if they realise I am no threat, she thought. They all climbed into the Land Rover.

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to take private passengers,” said Elspeth.

  “Nobody’s bothering about me,” said Hamish. “Where shall we go?”

  “Anywhere,” said Elspeth happily.

  “I know,” said Hamish. “We’ll go up to Cromish.” He told her about the fox-loving Samantha. “I just want to make sure she’s all right. I feel sorry for her.”

  When they got to Cromish, Hamish thought that Samantha had perhaps left and was surprised to find her at home: not only at home, but changed in appearance for the better. She had put on weight and her cheeks were rosy.

  And she was wearing a sparkling diamond ring on her engagement finger.

  “Who’s the lucky man?” asked Hamish.

  “I’m going to be married to Dr. Williams,” said Samantha.

  “How did that happen?” asked Hamish when they were seated in Samantha’s kitchen.

  “When I got out of hospital,” said Samantha, “I was a neurotic mess and went to him for anti-depressants. He said all I had to do was to accept country life, eat more, and get exercise. He sort of took me over.” She laughed happily.

  “And what about the fox?” asked Elspeth.

  “I haven’t seen him. Harold, that’s Dr. Williams, took me all round the crofts and got the crofters to tell me horrible stories about foxes.”

  Hamish found it hard to believe the transformation. He would have expected such as Samantha to go back to Edinburgh and spend her time on the Internet connecting up with animal libbers.

  When they left her, Hamish suggested they buy some stuff from the shop and have a picnic on the beach.

  “Now this,” said Elspeth, “is what I call the best bacon bap in Scotland.”

  “She’s missing Anka. But Mrs. Mackay always had a grand hand wi’ the baps.”

  Little waves hissed up on the hard white sand, and Sonsie and Lugs raced up and down chasing seagulls.

  Hamish told Elspeth all about the case and then said, “What puzzles me is how this Laurent can escape detection when he’s got a Quebec accent and a tattooed face. He can bleach his hair and do all sorts of things but he can’t get rid o’ thae tattoos. Any ideas?”

  Elspeth frowned as she concentrated hard. Hamish watched her face affectionately. If only, if only, he thought.

  “I know. He could black it up. He’s probably got all sorts of forged identities. He could have moved to Glasgow or London where no one would notice another black face. But they’re rare in the Highlands. We’ve got Indians and Pakistanis, but they’re brown.

  “If he’s clever, he won’t want to have moved much away from the Highlands. Police are thin on the ground in the north of Scotland. Did the police manage to get a photo of him from Canada?”

  “Not that I’ve heard. Laurent is probably not his real name.”

  “What about fingerprints?”

  “He wore gloves.”

  “Here’s an idea,” said Elspeth. “Have you one of the identikit pictures?”

  “Aye, I’ve one at the station.”

  “They’re running a trailer for this crime programme tonight. We could change his face to black, photograph it, and I could e-mail it in with instructions to show it on the trailer. You won’t get into trouble. I’ll say I thought of it myself.”

  “I’d like to catch the man myself,” said Hamish. “But phone calls will go straight to the police.”

  “No they won’t. I’ll give instructions with a number that they are to call the television station and tell the station to call me at the Tommel Castle Hotel. I’ll tell them that we might get an exclusive that way. I’ll pass anything on to you.”

  “What time will it be broadcast?”

  “Every hour on the hour this evening. Let’s get back to the station and get started.”

  People might complain about immigrants to the British Isles, but Hamish thought that surely shopkeepers like Mr. Patel were God’s gift. He seemed to stock everything and that included a bottle of india ink and brushes.

  Back at the station, they turned Laurent’s face black and waited for the ink to dry. Then, after a long consultation with her boss, Elspeth took several photographs and e-mailed them over.


  “You’d better come up to the hotel with me,” she said, “and be on hand if there is any news.”

  Elspeth was irritated to find that Hamish was taking Sonsie and Lugs with him. She often felt the man was married to his pets. But Hamish took the animals through to the hotel kitchen and left them with the chef before returning to join Elspeth in the bar.

  They watched the television programme on Elspeth’s computer. At six o’clock, the trailer came on and Laurent’s blackened face appeared.

  “Let’s hope we get something soon,” fretted Hamish. “Strathbane will be on to your station, demanding that any calls be routed to them.”

  “I thought of that,” said Elspeth, “and told them to stall the police for as long as possible.”

  They waited until seven o’clock and watched the trailer again. The bar was filling up.

  “Let’s go up to my room,” suggested Elspeth.

  They sat moodily, staring at the screen, waiting and waiting, too nervous to speak.

  Elspeth’s phone suddenly rang, making both of them jump. “We’ve got some calls,” came her boss, Barry’s, voice. Elspeth pressed the loudspeaker button on her phone so that Hamish could hear the messages as well.

  The first one claimed that Laurent was working as a dishwasher in a restaurant in Glasgow. Hamish shook his head. Laurent would not take any job where the black would run off his hands.

  The second was from a hysterical woman, claiming that Laurent was the husband who had deserted her.