by M C Beaton
Soon Blair’s face seemed to fill the screen. “I have a confession here,” he said portentously, “from the murderer of Paul English and Alison Ford, and the perpetrator of the murderous assault on a policeman. It comes from Mrs. Maisie Walters, minister o’ the kirk.” There was an unusually rewarding silence from the press as he read it out.
When he had finished, one of the reporters stood up. “Harry Girton, Sutherland Times. What part did Hamish Macbeth have to play in extracting this confession?”
“Who?”
“The bobby in Lochdubh.”
“Nothing at all,” growled Blair.
“One more question. Where did you get this confession?”
“It was sent tae me.”
“So you really didn’t do any detecting?” said Harry Girton. “It just landed in your lap.”
Daviot stepped forward. “As Detective Chief Inspector Blair has been in charge of the case from the beginning, it is natural that the murderer, a member of the kirk, should feel he was the right man to receive her confession. That will be all.”
But a reporter from the Courier shouted, “It could be a forgery.”
“It was checked by Callum Macdonald, who is one of the foremost experts in this country, and he declares it to be genuine. That will be all.”
* * *
“Well, well,” said Hamish. “My wee man must be good. Callum is usually hawk-eyed. In about three-quarters of an hour’s time, Jimmy Anderson will be on the doorstep. I’d better go to Patel’s and buy some whisky.”
“I’ll go,” said Freddy. “Why will he be coming?”
“Because he thinks I’ve got something to do with it. Don’t worry. I’ve bunged another forged note off to Blair. I let myself into the manse last night and typed one out and got the signature forged.”
“And what does it say?”
“I have sinned in the eyes of the Lord. I send my body to the depths of the ocean from the top of the cliff at Lochdubh and may God have mercy on my soul.”
“Don’t you feel a bit blasphemous, Hamish?”
“Not a bit of it.”
* * *
Freddy strolled into Patel’s grocery-cum-post-office shop. The sun was shining outside on the loch, and a brisk breeze was blowing from the Atlantic. He suddenly realised why it was that Hamish Macbeth would do everything in his power to make sure he was kept on in Lochdubh. Various villagers greeted him and welcomed him to the village. The Currie sisters had seen him approaching the shop and had rushed home to return and give him a plate of their famous scones. Archie Maclean gave him a couple of mackerel and asked him if he would tell Hamish that a man over at Bonar Bridge had hens for sale. Freddy paid for the whisky and as he left the shop, he saw Priscilla hurrying along the waterfront. As she came closer, he saw she had been crying.
“Oh, hullo,” she said and then she began to weep.
“Oh, dear,” said Freddy. “Come to the station.”
“No, I don’t want to see Hamish!”
“Well, now. We’ll chust get into ma old banger of a car and take off. There’s a wee tea shoppie on the Lairg road. Nothin’ like strong tea and cream cakes to settle a body.”
Unresisting, Priscilla allowed herself to be helped into Freddy’s old car. Freddy drove off feeling like a knight of old who had just rescued the princess.
* * *
Hamish looked at the clock. What was keeping Freddy? He was about to go and search for him when Jimmy arrived.
“Where’s the hooch?” he cried, slumping down at a chair at the kitchen table.
“Freddy went to Patel’s to buy some and he hasnae come back. Oh, I’ve remembered. I’ve got a bottle of brandy in the back of the bedroom cupboard along wi’ the medical supplies.”
“Then wheel it out!”
“Okay. I’ll phone Patel’s first to see if anyone’s seen Freddy.”
After five minutes Hamish came back with the brandy. “You took your time,” grumbled Jimmy as Hamish poured him a measure.
“Checking up on Freddy. He took off with Priscilla. Why?”
“Phone him. He’s got a mobile, hasn’t he?”
“It’s his day off and he’s a grown man. None of my business.”
“I’ll tell you what’s my business,” said Jimmy. “Why do I have this feeling that it’s all too simple? And I get to thinking. Up in Lochdubh, there’s a clever copper who doesn’t want promotion and so he gets a confession and bungs it off to Blair.”
“It is the grand imagination you have there, Jimmy.”
“Now, here’s an odd thing. I go to see that elder o’ the kirk, Jake Ingles, and he tells me that Maisie got a call from someone saying Hamish Macbeth knew she was the murderer and had the proof. So I get to thinking that Macbeth is playing the sacrificial goat and trying to lure her into the open. So maybe he does. And maybe kills her. But why hush it up? And where’s that cat from hell that was terrifying the village? And that expert on forgery? His wife’s left him and now he’s drunk the whole time. He wouldn’t know a forgery from his arsehole at the moment. What I’m saying is this. Before I get that so-called confession down to Glasgow to another expert, what do you have to say, and pour another shot for me while you speak.”
“Leave it, Jimmy, the murder is solved,” said Hamish.
“No, laddie. If you’ve solved the case and given the credit to Blair, at least you might ha’ given it to me.”
“And you’d have seized it with both hands and not asked questions? You’re too good a detective. So what are you going to do? Find that other expert? Blow the case wide open? Daviot will hate you, Blair will hate you. Our forgery expert might just stick to his guns, not wanting to ruin his reputation.”
“Is she dead?”
“Yes.”
“You killed her?”
“No, I…Who the hell is that?”
The kitchen door opened and Jake Ingles burst in. “I never would have believed her so evil,” he cried, waving a black leather-bound notebook.
“Come in and sit down. Now what is this?” asked Hamish, while all the time he was praying that Jimmy would not betray him.
“The new minister didnae like that desk o’ Maisie’s so I said I’d chop it up for firewood because no one would buy an old shabby thing like that. When I took the axe to it, a wee secret drawer pops out and I read all this filth she had written.”
“Pour him a brandy, Jimmy,” said Hamish, “while I hae a look.”
“Pour it yourself,” snapped Jimmy. “I’ll look at it.”
He read carefully, muttering, “Mad. Quite mad. Thinks God was telling her to do the murders. Says she’ll commit one more and then go to join Paul in the bog. Mr. Ingles, I’ll give you a receipt for this. In the name o’ the wee man. I’ll call my own press conference and get the digger up to the bog.” Then he muttered, “This is all mine, Hamish.”
* * *
When Freddy came back, he found Hamish on his own in the kitchen. Priscilla had urged Freddy not to tell Hamish what had upset her, although Freddy was still puzzled as to why this goddess had been so upset when a man she had invited up to Scotland had only tried to kiss her. Rape he could have understood. But Hamish blurted out all about the notebook and the real confession.
Freddy looked relieved. “We’re covered then,” he said.
“No. In her confession, she says she’s going to throw herself in the bog. Jimmy is getting it excavated. Peat protects bodies. She’ll be brought up with that cat at her neck and every sign that the cat killed her. The world’s press will descend on us.”
They had not noticed how dark it had been getting outside, and both jumped nervously when a great crash of thunder shook the station. Then came the relentless drumming of rain on the roof. Freddy put the bottle of whisky on the table. He looked enquiringly at Hamish, who shook his head and put the kettle on for coffee. Outside the terrifying winds of Sutherland rose high and higher, crashing and booming. “Let’s see if Jimmy’s got his press conference,” said H
amish going into the living room, only to find there was a power cut.
“What can we do?” shouted Freddy above the noise of the storm. Hamish shook his head. The kettle he had put on top of the wood-burning stove began to whistle. He retreated to the kitchen, made two cups of coffee, and opened a tin of shortbread which had a picture on the lid of a blonde and blue-eyed Bonnie Prince Charlie waving a sword.
The thunder rolled away but still the wind howled and the old police station seemed to shake to its very foundations. Then as if Thor and his hordes had at last ridden away, the roar of the storm slowly subsided, and bit by bit the rain stopped.
Hamish’s hazel eyes began to gleam. “Thon peat bog’ll be filled to overflowing with the rain. I’m going up there to see if she floats to the top. All I want to do is get the cat off her. You can stay here, Freddy.”
“No, I’ll come with you. It’s time I hardened up.”
They walked quickly on foot up onto the moors. Grateful for the springy heather underfoot which stopped them from sinking into the mud, they made their way to the peat bog. Water was overflowing around it, but no signs of anything coming to the top. Freddy had brought along a long shepherd’s crook. He fished in the bog with the crook end. “Got something,” he whispered, his face turning greenish white in the pale evening sunlight which had followed the storm.
“Give me the crook,” said Hamish, “and go and sit on that rock over there.”
Freddy nodded dumbly and did as he was told.
Hamish gave a massive tug and then, with a gurgling plop, something came free and sailed over his head. He turned and looked behind him. It was the wet muddy corpse of the cat.
He fished in the bag he had brought with him, took out a sack, and put the cat into it. He could not believe this horrible creature was actually dead.
“Come on, Freddy. It is as dead as a doornail and there will be no great story. I’ve something else. She had a knife in her pocket, and before we chucked her in the bog I wiped her blood on it. There’ll be her blood in the cracks round the handle and with any luck they might think she cut her own throat.” He threw the knife into the bog and, followed by Freddy, made his way back to the police station.
“Where will you bury the beast?” asked Freddy.
“I’ll chuck it in the loch. Look, Freddy, make yourself some strong tea. I’ll do this.”
Hamish went down to the harbour and unhitched one of the rowing boats that Archie hired out to the tourists. In the middle of the loch, he took out the body of the cat. He began to pile some rocks he had picked up into the bag, and then, grabbing the cat by the scruff of the neck, he began to stuff it in. That was when one eye appeared to open and glare at him with a yellow light. He screamed with fright and then realised it was the late sun shining on one of the dead cat’s eyes.
He let out a slow sigh of relief as he hurled the bag over the side and watched it sink.
* * *
Hamish and Freddy both woke late the next morning, roused by someone banging on the kitchen door. Hamish wrapped himself in his old tatty tartan dressing gown and went to answer it. Jimmy Anderson stood there, grinning from ear to ear.
“Man, I am the hero o’ the hour. Got her body. Don’t know why the silly moo thought she was joining Paul English when she must ha’ known we got him up and out the bog ages ago. She’d cut her own throat and made a right mess o’ it. Anyway, plaudits for me. Blair in a flaming temper. Big yins from Glasgow murmured congratulations and took the next plane south. Hey, I thought thon cat had gone.”
“It has,” said Hamish, feeling his stomach lurch. “Why?”
“Dunno. Feel it around. Where’s the celebration drink?”
“Isn’t it too early?”
“While you’ve been lying in the arms o’ Murphy, the clock’s been whizzing around. It’s eleven in the morning and the sun is over the yardarm, not to mention pooping on the poop deck, so let’s have it.”
Freddy had joined them to hear the last sentence. “I put the whisky from yesterday in the cupboard over the stove.”
“Bring it out, lad. Are you sure that damn cat isn’t somewhere around? The whole place smells o’ wet cat. Hey! Look out!”
Hamish caught Freddy as he collapsed in a dead faint. “I think he’s been overdoing it,” he said, easing the policeman’s limp body onto a kitchen chair and slapping his cheeks. Hamish found a little brandy left from before and got Freddy to drink some. “Go and lie down,” urged Hamish. “I’ll take you to the doctor later.” He helped Freddy to bed and came back to find Jimmy cradling a large glass of whisky in his hands.
“Well, here’s tae me,” said Jimmy, taking a gulp. “Your lad there was romancing Miss Priscilla over the teacups all afternoon while we were waiting for the whisky.”
“I know about that,” said Hamish, somehow anxious not to betray that it was the first he’d heard of this tea party. “Priscilla’s aye been kind to newcomers. But I don’t think Freddy’s up to policing.”
“You don’t want him, we’ll take him back.”
“No, he’d hate that. I’ll think of something.” Hamish felt a surge of dislike for Freddy. If he went on fainting all over the place, then one day he was going to open his mouth and tell someone everything. And what the hell had he been doing with Priscilla?
* * *
Blair was consumed with fear and hatred. He was sure it was Hamish who was behind the finding of that first confession. All his old hatred for Hamish came back and he began to plot and plan ways to get rid of him. Also, with all his old detective intuition which was always there, despite being blurred a bit by booze, he had smelled that there was something wrong with that first confession.
The weak link between falsehood and truth might lie with Freddy. But he would have to get Freddy alone. He phoned the station, and it was Jimmy who answered. He told Blair that Hamish had said he was going to spend the day on his extensive beat; Freddy was to stay behind and answer the phone. Blair thanked him and then set out for Lochdubh.
Crouched over the wheel of his car, he muttered, “I’ll beat the shit out of that copper until I get the truth.”
* * *
But while he was on the road to Lochdubh, Priscilla called at the station to thank Freddy for his listening ear and warm sympathy. She was used to men fancying her as some sort of arm candy and none of them had ever wanted to comfort her or listen to her, although a treacherous voice was whispering that Hamish had done his best while they were engaged. The fact was, she had something more to trouble her: Clarry, the cook, had fallen ill with gallstones and was in Braikie hospital, leaving the hotel with the incipient visit of twelve members of the famous Gourmet Club. The head of the club was a waspish man who would give the restaurant a bad report out of spite because the actual planned gourmet lunch had been cancelled.
Freddy listened carefully and then said, “I think I could do that. I’m a good cook, though I say it myself. Let’s go to the hotel kitchen. I’ll do my best.”
While Priscilla drove him to the hotel, Freddy took out his iPad and Googled the name of the head of the Gourmet Club, Peregrine Wimple. He decided that the presentation of the food must be pretentious in the extreme.
* * *
Blair’s wife, Mary, had followed him in her car. She reflected bitterly that a lot of her life was taken up these days with keeping her husband out of the asylum. She had heard him talking in his sleep and knew he was out for revenge. She kept well back on the road, not wanting her husband to see her.
They were about to pass the entrance to the Tommel Castle Hotel when Blair slammed on the brakes. The car park was visible from the road, and he had spotted Freddy’s old car.
Worse and worse, thought Mary as she eventually cruised along to the hotel entrance and saw her husband’s car. What was he after? Hamish’s police Land Rover wasn’t there. Blair had been grinding his teeth in his sleep and muttering, “I’ll beat it out o’ him.” Mary didn’t think he’d take on Hamish in a fight. But what about H
amish’s new policeman, Freddy something-or-other?
* * *
Priscilla was in the kitchen, gazing in wonder at the trays of starters being conjured up under Freddy’s clever fingers. There were radishes like rosebuds, decorating small side bowls of salad; vols-au-vent filled with prawns Marie Rose; Orkney scallops on beds of samphire; and wild smoked salmon rolled up with a small bowl of real mayonnaise on each plate.
She was just beginning to say, “You’re a genius…” when the kitchen door was hurled open and Blair, his face purple with rage and the desire for revenge, stood on the threshold.
“You! Oot,” he snarled at Freddy.
“Leave him alone!” shouted Priscilla, stepping in front of Freddy.
Blair made the awful mistake of thinking he was just tugging Priscilla aside but he jerked at her arm so hard that she went flying and crashed into the cooker.
Freddy saw his golden goddess assaulted and was consumed with such rage that he threw a massive punch that sent Blair flying off back through the kitchen door to drop unconscious at the feet of his horrified wife.
The ambulance was called but Blair had recovered consciousness to find himself in deep trouble. Daviot had been sent for and arrived by helicopter. Priscilla explained that Freddy had been helping out as part of a police initiative to provide help in the community. Silas stayed hidden in his basement apartment. The last thing he wanted was to bring himself to the attention of police headquarters even though he had left. He thought he would never forget his awful experiences while policing for Hamish.
Nobody could raise Hamish. He was not answering his mobile or the police radio.
Daviot was wondering what on earth to do about Blair. He feared that the detective still had incriminating photos of his wife. A few years ago she had been drugged and photographed in compromising positions. Hamish had told him he had recovered them all, but Blair claimed otherwise. At last Daviot had an idea. “It is either a transfer to Glasgow,” he said, “or the sack.”
