Death Of An Addict

by M C Beaton

  They joined Jimmy in the cabin, all sitting around the table, but not saying much. One of the crew landed them on the point at the head of Loch Drim. "Now we wait," said Hamish. He looked across the darkness towards the cave but there was no sound and no sign of life.

  The night was frosty and calm. He had never known an hour pass so slowly. Then at last they heard the faint sound of an outboard engine.

  "That should be it," he said with an air of relaxed ease which belied the rapid beating of his heart.

  The sound of the engine approached and then cut off. There was silence apart from the lapping of the waves and then the sound of oars in rowlocks. Hamish took out a torch and gave a brief flash. There was an answering flash and then in the starlight they could see faintly a dinghy rowed by two men, pulling towards the point.

  Hamish strolled forward to meet it. "Any trouble?" he asked.

  "No trouble, sir." Hamish cursed inwardly. That "no trouble, sir" had been a damn sight too polite and official. He took hold of the oilskin packet the man was holding up as he stood in the rocky boat.

  "Get off fast," he ordered. "I don't want you hanging around."

  "Yes, sir." Damn, it's a wonder he didn't salute, thought Hamish furiously.

  He turned to Jimmy. "There's the first instalment."

  "Bring the torch here," Jimmy ordered one of his men. He took a wicked knife out of his pocket and cut open the package and looked down at the cellophane bags.

  "Aye, that'll do, Hamish. Now we wait a bit until my man comes back."

  "So if you're satisfied," said Hamish, "we can let you have the rest of the stuff in, say, another two days."

  "Aye, we'd best make it here. Say Wednesday morning. I'll pick you up same as this evening."

  "You know what I'd almost forgotten about," said Hamish when he and Olivia were back in their hotel room. "The person whose death started all this. Tommy Jarret. I've no doubt his parents have been trying to get hold of me. They must have thought I'd forgotten about the whole thing."

  "When we catch them, we'll sweat it out of Lachie."

  "I think such as Lachie won't talk."

  "Anyway, let's get this over with. If you like, I'll get us some time off and we can see if we can find out anything further about the boy's death. I'm going to bed. It's been a long night."

  Hamish waited until she had finished using the bathroom and then went in and ran himself a hot bath. He put on his silk pyjamas-courtesy of the police force-and went into the bedroom.

  He felt his way in the darkness to his bed. He should be tired, he thought, but he was plagued by a strung-up, restless feeling mixed with an uneasy feeling of apprehension.

  "Hamish." Olivia's voice was soft in the darkness.

  "Yes?"

  "I can't sleep. I'm worried."

  "Me, too."

  "Hamish?"

  "Yes."

  "If you come over here, we could worry together."

  "Yes, ma'am," said Hamish Macbeth. It was the first time he had obeyed a senior officer's orders with any enthusiasm.

  It was a pity that Superintendent Daviot could not tell the difference between duty and grovelling. He rated Blair highly because Blair always praised him. The temptation to boast about the latest success of the operation was too much. He sent for Blair.

  "We're doing just fine," said Daviot, rubbing his hands. "Just fine."

  "So what's the latest, sir?"

  Daviot told him about the success of the first drug delivery. "So all we have to do is hope the second meet goes as well and then we'll have them. And Detective Chief Inspector Chater has done splendidly. When they went to Lachie's and Jimmy White was bragging about his contacts, she taped every word. We could do with someone bright like that here. We haven't got a single woman detective and it's bad for our image."

  "I think the success of the whole thing is due to your meticulous planning, sir," said Blair.

  "Well, I must say I've had a hand in it. But give credit where it's due, I think we owe a lot to Hamish Macbeth. He's been rotting up in that village of his for too long. Drink?"

  "That would be very nice, sir. Just a splash of whisky."

  Blair's mind raced. This was awful. Hamish Macbeth transferred to Strathbane was bad enough, but to have a woman of the same rank was worse. Women should stay at home and in the kitchen where they belonged.

  "So you were saying," said Blair, taking the glass of whisky handed to him, "that the final operation is at two o'clock on Wednesday morning at the head of Loch Drim?"

  "That's it and then we start a massive round-up of all the other villains. Thanks to Chater, we've got all the names."

  Blair went back to his desk afterwards and brooded over the problem. He then took out his book of informants, or snouts as they were called, and ran his finger down the list. He picked up the phone. "Callum," he whispered. "Blair here. Meet me down at the Fisherman's Bar at the docks. Can you be there in an hour? There's big money in this for ye."

  He listened to the reply and then said, "I'll see you there. Don't let me down."

  The Fisherman's Bar dated from the days when there were fishermen and the harbour at Strathbane had been crammed with trawlers. But overfishing and European Union quotas had crippled the fishing industry and the harbour lay deserted apart from a few rusting hulks of boats. The Fisherman's Bar consisted of little more than one small smelly room. Nicotine from millions of cigarettes had stained the once-white walls yellow. There was an ancient jukebox in the corner, still containing a stack of sixties records. No one could quite remember the last time it had worked. A television set over the bar was relaying the latest horse racing from Ayr and Cheltenham. No one ever came to the bar for any good purpose. It was a haunt of small-time villains. Callum, the snout, was one of those dwarf-sized men who still inhabit inner cities. His sparse hair was combed carefully over his bald spot. He had a deeply wrinkled face, no teeth, not even false ones, to lend shape to his sour and wrinkled mouth. He wore glasses and chain-smoked.

  His information was usually as small-time as the villains who used the bar-petty theft, people who grew and sold cannabis, the odd ram raid, burglary and some warehouse break-ins. He passed these tidbits on to Blair, who would pay him the occasional tenner for the information.

  Blair came in and sat down at the battered table in the corner which Callum had chosen. "I'm surprised you chose this place," said Callum.

  "Nobody knows me down here," said Blair.

  "Aye but you stink of copper," said Callum, watching a couple of men swallow their drinks quickly and make for the door.

  "Okay, we'll take a walk." Callum looked disappointed. He craved a drink but had not ordered anything, expecting Blair to pay for one.

  Both men walked out. The day was cold and clear. Mournful seagulls swooped overhead. Plastic cups, condoms, burger wrappers and other detritus bobbed on the filthy water.

  "So what brings you?" asked Callum.

  "This is big money," said Blair.

  "How big?"

  "Very big. I'm giving you information to sell."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  O Death, where is thy sting-a-ling-a-ling,

  O Grave, thy victoree?

  The hells of Hell go ting~a~ling~a-ling

  For you hut not for me.

  – British army song

  Callum's heart beat hard as he went into the noise of Lachie's disco that night. How much should he ask for such information? A thousand?

  He went up to the bar. The bartender eyed him with disfavour. "What d'ye want, old man?"

  "Not so much o' the old man, laddie," said Callum. "I'm here to see Lachie."

  "Oh, aye? And what's your business?"

  "I've got information for him."

  "Awa' wi' ye. He's busy."

  "Okay, tell him I'll see him in prison." Callum had shouted the last words to be heard above the disco beat. "Wait here," said the bartender.

  Callum turned round and watched the gyrating couples. How could folks
get enjoyment out of dancing like that? The stabbing strobes hurt his eyes and the music hurt his ears. No damn tune, either.

  The bartender came back. "Come with me."

  He led Callum through to Lachie's office.

  Lachie was alone. Callum threw a longing glance at the bar in the corner.

  Lachie was sitting behind his desk. He did not ask Callum to sit down.

  "So what's this information?" he asked.

  "I'm not saying anything until I see Jimmy White and get paid for it."

  Lachie leaned forward. "I don't know anything about anyone called Jimmy White. Get out o' here."

  "He's caught in the middle o' a police scam," said Callum sulkily.

  Lachie looked at him long and hard, and then he smiled. "Have a seat. What's your name?"

  "Callum."

  "Callum what?"

  "Just Callum."

  "Drink?"

  "Aye, a whisky would be fine."

  Lachie picked up the phone and, turning away from Callum, whispered into it. After he had replaced the receiver, he went to the bar and poured a generous glass of whisky for Callum.

  "Cheers!" said Callum.

  Lachie nodded. Then he said, "How much are you asking for this information?"

  "A thousand pounds," said Callum.

  "Well, we'll see." The door opened and the Undertaker came in. "On his way," he said briefly. He sat down on a chair against the wall. He took out a nasty-looking knife and began to clean his nails.

  "I thought they only did that on the fillums," said Callum nervously. Both men said nothing, just looked steadily and unnervingly at Callum.

  "It's been fine weather," said Callum.

  Nothing. They just continued to stare at him. Callum could feel sweat breaking out on his forehead. He began to curse Blair in his mind. He was beginning to feel all this was too deep and dangerous for a small-time villain like himself.

  The door opened and Jimmy White came in. Callum immediately knew this must be Jimmy White from the expensive clothes and the two brutal-looking henchmen who came in behind him.

  Jimmy White drew up a chair next to Callum and said, "Speak."

  "It's important information," said Callum. "I want a thousand pounds for it."

  "You'll get it. Now, speak."

  "I'd like to see the money first," said Callum, frightened but determined.

  "You have the word of Jimmy White. Isn't that good enough for you?"

  Callum caved in. Now all he wanted was to get out of this dreadful place. The office was soundproofed but the disco beat filtered through like the beating of his heart.

  "It's like this," he said. "You're dealing with a man who says he's Hamish George and his wife."

  "So?"

  "He's Hamish Macbeth, a copper from Lochdubh, and his so-called wife is a detective chief inspector from Glasgow. The heroin you're getting is from that haul the police grabbed in Glasgow. At the next drop, all the police will be waiting for you."

  "Who told you this?"

  "I got it from top level in the police but I cannae be revealing my source. Now, what about that money?"

  Jimmy White turned to one of his henchmen. He made a twisting motion with his hands. "Pay him."

  Callum relaxed and picked up his whisky. One of the henchmen stepped forward and deftly slipped a wire around Callum's scrawny neck and pulled tight. The rest watched with interest as Callum writhed and fought and then was still. His lifeless body slumped to the floor.

  "Dump that in the harbour," said Jimmy.

  "You'd best clear off," said Lachie.

  "Not before I take out Hamish Macbeth," said Jimmy. "That bastard's going to pay for this with his life."

  Hamish went through to their little hotel sitting room the following morning. Olivia looked up at him, her face shiny bright as if lacquered. He thought, She's going to say, "I hope you are not going to take what happened between us last night seriously."

  "Sit down, Hamish. Coffee? There's something we need to discuss."

  "You're going to say that last night is to be forgotten," said Hamish.

  "Well, yes. We've got a job on and we cannot have any emotional involvement."

  "Very well, ma'am."

  There was an awkward silence. Hamish switched on the television. It was the local news. "A body was recovered from the harbour at Strathbane this morning," said the announcer. "Police are not revealing the identity of the dead man until relatives have been informed. Foul play is suspected."

  "Find out who that was," said Hamish.

  "Why?"

  "We're involved in a drug scam and suddenly there's a dead body. I'd like to know who it is."

  Olivia phoned Daviot, who said he would phone back. "I think we're both worrying too much, Hamish."

  "I've suddenly got a bad feeling," said Hamish. "Dammit, I know there's something gone wrong."

  The phone rang, making them both jump. Olivia answered it, listened, said thank you and rang off. "He was a small-time crook called Callum Short."

  "Could they get a photograph of him over here?"

  "Why, Hamish?"

  "Chust a hunch. Please, Olivia."

  Olivia rang again and asked for a photograph of the dead man. "I hope you're not cracking up," she said to Hamish.

  "How did he die?"

  "He was strangled."

  "I'm worried."

  "But why?"

  "I'll tell you when I see that photo."

  Olivia had ordered breakfast but Hamish picked at his.

  After an hour, there was a knock at the door. "That'll be the photograph," said Olivia.

  She swung open the door.

  Jimmy White's henchmen walked in. Both held guns. One said, "You'll put on your coats and come with us. One movement, Macbeth, and we'll shoot her first in the stomach."

  They put on their coats. "And look cheery about it," the taller of the two growled. "One sign to alert anyone and she's dead."

  Numbly they walked downstairs. Outside, there was a long black car. The door swung open. "In the back," they were ordered. They climbed in. Jimmy White was sitting there, holding a small pistol.

  "Where are you taking us?" asked Hamish.

  "Shut your face," said Jimmy.

  The car sped on out of Strathbane. Hamish held Olivia's hand. How had they been unmasked? Was it something to do with that body in the harbour?

  Then he realised they were heading for Lochdubh.

  "You taking me home?" he asked Jimmy.

  "Aye, we did some checking up on you. I've been up all night," said Jimmy. "Highland copper who loves the place. So you'll die there."

  "Man, everyone will know you killed us!" said Hamish. "You'll have all the police looking for you."

  "I'll be on my way to South America tonight," said Jimmy. "And I want everyone to know I did it. Nobody messes wi' me. I was thinking of retiring anyway."

  The car cruised down to the harbour at Lochdubh. Hamish could see Jimmy's high-powered boat in the harbour.

  "As I said, I checked up on you," said Jimmy. "You're supposed to be taking a wee holiday. So as part of your holiday, you're coming on a sail with me. You're the only copper in Lochdubh, so there won't be any more of the fuzz around. Nobody likes a policeman, so the villagers wont be much interested in what you do. But just in case you try to warn any of them, they'll be killed."

  He's mad, thought Hamish. Stark staring mad. And yet, he'll get away with it. Dump me and Olivia at sea and head off to France or Amsterdam and disappear.

  The car stopped on the harbour. "Get out," ordered Jimmy. "You men, keep the guns concealed, but shoot if you have to. Hughie"-to the driver-"take this car away and lose it."

  Hamish got out of the car and then helped Olivia out. He took a longing look at Lochdubh. If I ever get out of this alive, he thought, I'll never leave the place again.

  "Hamish!" He froze.

  Angela Brodie was hurrying along the waterfront towards them. "Get rid of her fast," snarled Jimmy.
<
br />   "Why, Hamish," said Angela, coming up to him, "you're looking very grand. Won the lottery?"

  "No, thrift shop," said Hamish.

  "You'll need to tell me which thrift shop and I'll go there myself," exclaimed Angela.

  "I've got to go," said Hamish, conscious of Jimmy's gun in his ribs. "I'll call on you when I get back."

  Angela looked from one to the other. Why didn't Hamish introduce her and why was that woman with him so white-faced and frightened?

  "Your sheep are all right, Hamish," she said. Jimmy was urging Hamish away from her.

  "What about the black one?" asked Hamish over his shoulder. "It's sick. I think it's going to be put down. See you."

  Another jab from the gun. Hamish and Olivia went down the stone steps to the large white cruiser which was Jimmy's boat. They were urged down into the cabin. "Tie them up and let's get out of here," said Jimmy.

  "What are you going to do with us?" asked Hamish as their hands and feet were bound.

  "Weight you down and throw you overboard," said Jimmy. "Like I said, I was going to retire and this will be my last great up-yours to the coppers. No one makes a fool out o' Jimmy White."

  He jerked his head to the two henchmen. "No need to guard them. Let's go up on deck. The smell of police gets up my nose."

  "What went wrong?" Olivia said through white lips when she and Hamish were alone.

  "Someone blabbed."

  "Who?"

  "Someone at Strathbane."

  "You mean police headquarters? Surely not. Maybe someone recognised you."

  "I didn't go out of the hotel without my hat and dark glasses on. I took them off the day of the picnic, but only for the picnic. There's a lot of drunkenness in the police force and they consort with their informers."

  "Whoever did this must have known we would be killed."

  "Maybe not. Maybe they thought that the whole business would be aborted and that we'd all be left with egg on our faces."

  "Hamish, I'm terrified."

  He leaned forward and kissed her. It was all he could do. His mind went this way and that, but he could not see any hope for them. He was glad of the pain from the wire binding his wrists and ankles. It took his mind off, just a little, from his forthcoming death.