by M C Beaton
They found a table at the window. Willie Lamont, who had once been Hamish’s policeman, fussed around them, cleaning the table and even the menus until Hamish sharply told him to take their order. Willie had married the restaurant owner’s daughter and entered into a blissful life of discovering new cleaners. While they were waiting for their food, Hamish studied Silas. His shoulders were hunched and his eyes were on the table.
“Why on earth did you join the police force?” asked Hamish. “Willie! Bring us a bottle o’ Valpolicella.”
“Yis shouldnae drink on duty.”
“We’re not on duty. Hop to it.”
“I don’t drink alcohol,” said Silas.
“Alcoholic?”
“No.”
“So why?”
Silas hung his head. “My mother signed me up for the Temperance Society.”
“Did she now? Well, she isn’t here and a glass won’t kill ye.”
The bay window of the restaurant was open, and smells of pine, salt, tar, and afternoon baking drifted lazily in.
They had both ordered one main dish of veal Marsala. Silas took a gulp of wine and screwed up his face. It tasted sour. But a warmth spread up from his stomach and he had a sudden desire to cry. He was wrestling with his conscience because he did not want to spy on this kind sergeant.
Hamish studied his face for a few moments and then said, “He’s done it before, you know. We are talking here about Detective Chief Inspector Blair, who has no doubt ordered you to spy on me?”
“Yes, but I can resign from the force,” said Silas.
“No, no, calm down. Take it easy. I’ll do the reports for you. Settle in. Have more wine. Eat your food. Those are my orders. Maybe there’s something in those interviews done by detectives and other coppers. I mean, after Paul’s body had been found, the place was flooded with police asking questions. I’ve been concentrating too much on my own notes.”
“I went to Mrs. Mackenzie’s before I heard there was room for me in the station,” said Silas. “I’m glad I’m not staying there. All those religious texts on the walls. At least she’s the sort of God-fearing woman who wouldn’t dream of withholding evidence.”
“I wonder,” said Hamish. “What would make her hold her tongue? Threats? No. She’d play the martyr. Let’s have some pudding and then go back and find out what she did say.”
Silas had drunk nearly half a bottle of wine and longed to go to bed but felt better after Hamish had made him a strong cup of coffee. They sat at the desk in the office and Hamish scanned through the various reports until he said at last, “Here we are. Interviewed by Jimmy Anderson, no less.”
“Did they find his mobile?” asked Silas.
“No, the rain came back and nearly killed Blair, who was jumping up and down. Let’s see. Mrs. Mackenzie outraged that anyone should even suggest there were shenanigans going on in her respectable establishment. Oh, I did read this but it was her usual moan. I should have known from another case that she takes sleeping pills. What about the forestry workers who stay there? I mean it was forestry workers who assaulted English in the first place. Yes, it seems they all knew Alison had a habit of nipping out through the fire escape. But not one of them ever saw her meeting a man. Back to Jimmy. Now, here’s a thing. Jimmy says that the last time he was in Mrs. Mackenzie’s parlour she still had an ancient TV set. He says this time she had the latest flat-screen. So let’s fantasise. Someone knows something and Mrs. Mackenzie might tell the police and so that would explain the bribe of a good television set.”
“If Jimmy noticed the television then he must have thought it was suspicious.”
“Not if a football match was on. So we’ll go and ask about the television set. If she took it as a bribe, then she’ll splutter and protest. If a relative bought it for her or she waves a receipt at us, then we’ll come back and try to find something else.”
“Is this police station haunted?” said Silas.
“No, why?”
“I felt a sudden wave of cold. Mind you, I’m not used to alcohol.”
“Want to lie down for a bit and I’ll see Mrs. Mackenzie on my own?”
“No. I’ll splash cold water on my face and I’ll be fine.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Fair fa’ your honest sonsie face
—Robert Burns
Women often took the bus from Cnothan to Lochdubh to shop at Patel’s grocery because of his “special offers.” That day it was sliced cold ham. While her mother queued up, Fairy McSporran ran along to the vet’s to look at the animals. She was fascinated with the wild cat, wondering if it would ever wake up.
“Can I hae a peek?” she asked Peter, the vet.
“Aye, but don’t touch anything.”
Fairy darted into the back room and then stopped still, staring at the cat and all the tubes. And then the cat opened its eyes and glared at her.
She retreated backwards, her hand to her mouth, crying, “It’s awake!”
The vet came rushing in. The cat lay as before, eyes closed.
“Come away, lassie. It’s trick o’ the light.”
But the little girl seemed frightened and Peter, the vet, comforted her with a lollipop out of a jar he kept for children.
* * *
Refreshed and feeling happy again, Silas trotted along the waterfront with Hamish and the dog Lugs. Several of his colleagues back at Strathbane had sympathised with him being “banished to the backwoods.” Silas thought of the awful jobs in Strathbane, mainly drugs and fights, and felt he was the luckiest policeman in the world. Hamish looked at him thoughtfully. “Not interested in anything to do with cooking or the catering business?”
“No,” said Silas. “I was never allowed in the kitchen so I don’t even know how to boil an egg. Why?”
“I’ve lost three policemen to the catering trade. That’s all. Clarry is the chef at the castle, Willie of the restaurant you’ve met, and Dick has a bakery now in Braikie. The last one, mind you, Charlie, well that was just a combination of love and a fellow policewoman who had gone off the job as much as he had. Can we expect a visit from your mother?”
“She is trying hard but I told her it was a special assignment and if she came I would lose my job.”
“Possessive, is she?”
“Very. Like I told you, she made me join the Temperance Society.”
“Idle hands and all that,” said Hamish thoughtfully. “Your ma needs an interest to take her mind off you. I’ll find her something. So here we are at Mrs. Mackenzie’s. She’s gone in for gnomes, I see.”
“Isn’t it odd that gnomes have become fashionable again?” said Silas. “Particularly with people who like dreadful puns, like gnome alone, or there’s no place like gnome. That sort of thing.”
They walked up a brick path and knocked at the door. “That’s odd,” said Hamish. “She gives the forestry workers tea and usually she’s at home now preparing it.”
Few houses in Lochdubh had dinner or supper in the evenings. High tea ruled, that early meal consisting of one plate of food, ham and salad or fish-and-chips, and then bread and butter, scones, and iced cakes all washed down with strong tea.
“I saw a queue of women outside Patel’s,” said Silas. “Maybe she’s there.”
“Oh, o’ course. It’s cold ham day. Cold ham for tea is the caviar o’ Lochdubh.”
They strolled back, but there was no sign of Mrs. Mackenzie, and none of the women had seen her.
Hamish was suddenly assailed with a feeling of dread. “Let’s get back there. If no one answers the door, we’ll wait for the forestry workers.”
Again, when they knocked and rang the bell, there was no reply. “Let’s try the fire escape,” said Hamish.
They walked round and into the square of weedy garden. Hamish looked up. The fire escape door was open.
He ran up the stairs, muttering, “Oh, God, no,” with Silas at his heels. They ran along the corridor and hurtled down the stairs, crashing into Mrs. Mackenzie’s par
lour. She swung round and shouted, “What do you think you are doing?”
“Your fire escape door is standing open,” said Hamish.
“And so it is. There’s been a bit o’ damp up there and I’m letting the breeze in.”
So much for the great detective showing off his abilities to his policeman, thought Hamish gloomily.
“It is these murders,” said Hamish, “and the murder of Alison. I was nervous about you. Did you know any men calling on her?”
“No, and as I’ve told the police over and over again until I’m sick of it, I don’t allow gentlemen callers anywhere in the house except the back parlour. But no one even called on the lassie. She was a bit o’ a flibbertigibbet but she always paid her rent on time.”
“That’s a really big television,” said Silas. “Takes up most of your wall.”
“Yes, my eyes aren’t too good, so it is the great comfort. I havenae seen you before, young man.”
“I’m Silas Dunbar, Mr. Macbeth’s new policeman.”
“Aye, well, the lazy loon could do wi’ some help afore we all get murdered in our beds.”
A streak of highland malice gripped Hamish. “Business must be good to afford a television set like that.”
“It is more a case of God being good.”
“Oh, really? Prayed, did you, and he sent it to land on your doorstep?”
“Don’t be blasphemous or he will strike you dead, Hamish Macbeth, and the little demons in hell will stick their pitchforks in you and well you’ll deserve it. The kirk in Strathbane was holding a raffle for the children of the Sudan and the first prize was that telly donated by that sheik who bought old Urquhart’s castle ower near Moy Hall. I was down in Strathbane and they were selling tickets in Harold’s fishmongers, he had a special on coley. I bought two tickets, even though they were a pound each. I could hardly believe it when they phoned me. It was in the papers with my photo. See!”
She pointed to the wall by the window. Sure enough, there was a newspaper photo of her receiving a huge beribboned box. Alongside her was the provost and a small man in Arab dress.
Hamish felt sulky and angry. He had just demonstrated to his new policeman that he should have known about that television set as it had been in the newspapers and no doubt the hot topic of gossip in Lochdubh.
“You should keep a better eye on what’s going on here,” he said. “I mean this isn’t the first time that fire door has been used by a criminal.”
“I cannae be everywhere at once, can I? I keep a decent house here.”
“What about phone calls?”
“They’ve all got mobiles. Nobody uses the landline any more. Now off with you and use the front door. I won’t have you pair trekking dirt through the house.”
* * *
“Well, so much for one of my great ideas,” said Hamish when they were outside.
“Don’t worry, sir,” said Silas, taking a grateful breath of pure highland air. “You’ve got to fantasise and theorise to solve anything. I mean, we’re old-fashioned. We don’t have forensics or DNA at our fingertips. We have to go through headquarters to get those, and I bet if you try they fob you off.”
Hamish’s bad mood evaporated. “What a comforting sort of copper you are. I’m just going to look at my cat.”
They walked towards the vet’s while Hamish described the rescue of Sonsie and how no one was to know he had a wild cat.
His heart sank when he saw the cat, still to all intents and purpose in a coma.
“Back to the notes,” said Hamish. “There must be something we’ve missed.”
“I’ve got the names of the forestry workers who assaulted him,” said Silas. “If you like, I’ll go back to Mrs. Mackenzie’s and have a go at them.”
“That would be grand. I’ll see you back at the station.”
Hamish looked down and found Lugs at his heels. The dog always disappeared when he went to the vet’s. He sat down in the office and pulled the large sheaf of notes towards him and then stared vacantly at the wall. There was something in Mrs. Mackenzie’s conversation about that television that irked his brain, but he couldn’t think what it was.
He shook his head to clear it. He could hear Lugs in the kitchen, banging his metal food bowl on the floor, and went to give him some hard dog food because he knew that Lugs had been in the kitchen of the Italian restaurant and had probably had a large meal already.
He made himself a cup of strong coffee and then lit the stove because the evenings were getting cold although it was still not the end of August. He was reluctant to go back to work but at last he dragged himself to the office. So many people had motives to want Paul English dead. It couldn’t be Maggie Dinwiddy or her daughter, Holly Bates, no doubt waiting trial in America. They had been out of the country at that time. There was Caro Fleming, so cruelly tricked. The woman in Crask he had bankrupted. So very many people must have hated him with a passion. But one was around, the murderer, and that murderer must have been blackmailed by Alison. Alison lived in a fantasy world. She probably thought that Paul English deserved it and there was no harm in getting a bit of money to keep her in the heavy scent she liked and the sequinned clothes she wore off-duty. The sad fact, thought Hamish, was that if the murderer now felt secure, then there would be no more deaths—but then the murders would never be solved.
Silas came back an hour later. “They were pretty open about it. English was a bit drunk and hearing Glasgow accents started to sneer about that city, so they took him outside to throw him in the harbour. You broke it up and handcuffed English. The workers had run off. But they didn’t go back or anything like that. Two of the other workers at Mrs. Mackenzie’s heard her shouting at them for making a noise when they came in and giving them a lecture on temperance. So that’s out of the way.”
Hamish sighed. “You’d better phone Blair. He’ll like to hear about the failure. See if he’s got anything. I’ll talk to Jimmy.”
* * *
Jimmy reported that no one had ever seen Blair work so hard. In fact, too hard. A woman called Caro Fleming had complained about police harassment. Blair had gone as far as to arrest her for the murder of Paul English, have her brought in for questioning, and grill her so hard that it was only when she fainted and a doctor sent for that the full enormity of what Blair had done reached Daviot’s ears and Caro had to be placated with apologies and offers of generous compensation.
“Well, he’s planted Silas Dunbar to spy on me,” said Hamish, “but Silas is a grand wee chap and put me wise to it. Think o’ something, Jimmy. It’s enough to drive a man mad.”
“I don’t think we’re going to break this one, Hamish, and that’s a fact. I’ve looked and looked at all the CCTV stuff and there’s nothing there. There’s that shadowy figure you pointed out, but it’s only a darker shadow in the shadows and no idea that it’s the murderer. The trouble is that the hospital is short-staffed and pretty empty at night. It really looks as if Larry will pull through, but Daviot’s feeling desperate. Police Scotland are angry at all this unsolved mayhem and threatening to send some heavy guns up from Glasgow. Have you any whisky?”
“I think there’s some o’ the Japanese stuff, if you left any.”
“That’ll do,” said Jimmy, opening the kitchen door and walking in. He was followed by Silas.
Hamish poured three shots of whisky and gave one to Silas. “Take that into the office and spend an hour with the notes,” he said. “Then I’ll make us some supper.”
Silas went off. He raised the glass to his lips and then froze as he heard his mother’s voice at the kitchen door. Hamish quickly slammed the office door as he passed and then Silas heard him say, “Really, Mrs. Dunbar, your son is a grown man and on duty and if you persist in following him around, then I will need to report it and he will lose his job. Do I make myself clear?”
Low-key apologies and Silas breathed a sigh of relief as he heard his mother retreat. He gulped down some whisky. It tasted awful. But a minute later he fe
lt a warm glow. I hope I’m not becoming a dipsomaniac, he thought guiltily. But Blair had been bullying and his mother had always been bullying and he wanted to hang on to this to-hell-with-the lot-of-them feeling and so he drank the rest of the whisky and, mindful of his job, began to study the notes. He desperately wanted to find something, anything.
He finally heard Jimmy leaving, and then Hamish opened the door and came in. “I don’t think your ma will be around again. Has she any friends?”
“Oh, yes, usually she’s out at the church events all week.”
“As long as she’s not lonely.”
“No, she won’t be back. I heard what you said and the idea of me losing my job means loss of face and she couldn’t bear that. Dad died ten years ago and she went to the kirk for comfort and it somehow got the hold of her. But it keeps her busy and happy.”
“I can’t be bothered cooking. I phoned my old sidekick, Dick, and he’s got bacon baps. We can have those and maybe call at the hospital afterwards.”
* * *
Dick Fraser, to everyone’s astonishment, had married the glamorous Anka, a dazzling Polish redhead who nonetheless shared Dick’s passion for baking. Their baps were famous and they did a successful business online as well as in the shop.
Silas, seated in a comfortable armchair by the peat fire in their upstairs living room above the shop, with a bacon bap in one hand and an excellent cup of coffee in the other, wished with all his heart that he could keep this job as long as possible.
Hamish had been telling Dick all about the case. “I think it’s some lucky amateur, silencing people as he goes along,” said Dick. “And someone, funnily enough, not scary. I mean someone who could say, ‘Well, he hurt you, too, and he had it coming to him,’ sort of thing. Maybe even a sort of personality you might want to protect. Sort of person who says, ‘I did it for you as well as for myself.’”
“That’s a thought,” said Hamish, “but it’ll make it all the harder to find. The only people before nasty enough were Maggie Dinwiddy and her daughter, but old Granny was off busy blackmailing someone else.”
