Death of a Valentine

by M C Beaton

  “Maybe nothing,” said Josie. “But when the sun shone it looked as if there was a bit of paper stuck inside.”

  Hamish put on a pair of latex gloves and told Josie to do the same. He opened up the knickers gently. Sure enough, there was a scrap of paper. “We’d best take this down to the forensic lab in Strathbane,” he said. “We don’t want to risk damaging it.”

  Hamish’s heart sank when he saw forensic scientist Lesley Murray, formerly Lesley Seaton. She had pursued him at one time and was now married to her boss, Bruce Murray.

  “You can leave it with me,” she said.

  “If you don’t mind, we’ll hang around and see if there’s anything important,” said Hamish.

  Josie looked about in disappointment. It was hardly a scene out of CSI Miami. The room was dingy with frosted-glass windows. A faulty fluorescent light buzzed overhead like an angry wasp. There was a cup of coffee on Leslie’s desk with a skin of milk on the top. She had imagined the underwear being subjected to forensic scrutiny under high-tech machines, but all Lesley did was snip open one side of the knickers and with tweezers carefully extract a piece of scorched cardboard.

  “There’s some writing on it. Typewritten,” she said. “It looks like part of a valentine card.”

  Hamish leaned over her shoulder and read:

  “Rose are re…

  “Violets…

  “You’re going t…

  “Just what’s coming to you.”

  “I’ll telephone Mr. Blair and tell him about this,” said Lesley.

  “You better telephone Jimmy,” said Hamish. “He’s in charge o’ the case.”

  “Right. You can go,” said Lesley. “I’ll see if I can get anything more out of this.”

  “We’ll wait,” said Hamish.

  “I have other things to do,” said Lesley crossly. “And may I remind you, you are nothing more than a village bobby and not in charge of this case.”

  Josie opened her mouth to make an angry retort but received a quelling glare from Hamish.

  Outside, she asked, “Is she always like that?”

  “Pretty much. Nothing sinister about thon underwear because that piece o’ cardboard was obviously blasted there, but the bit o’ message is something.”

  I wonder if he jilted Lesley, thought Josie, her senses sharpened by jealousy. Lesley was pretty. Priscilla Halburton-Smythe looked like a model from Vogue. It was all very lowering.

  In the very north of Scotland, night falls around three or four PM in winter. Hamish wanted rid of Josie. She had certainly found that important clue. But there was something about her, a sort of cloying neediness, that got on his nerves. He was bewildered by the growing list of suspects. There are so many, he thought gloomily, it’s beginning to look like the local phone directory.

  After he reached Lochdubh, he dropped Josie off at the manse and then drove to the police station. He helped the dog down as the cat sprang lightly onto the ground with her large paws.

  “You haven’t had much exercise,” he told them. “We’ll go for a wee dauner along the waterfront.”

  Halos of mist were encircling the lamps, leaving black areas of shadow in between. He had a sudden feeling of being watched. He whipped round but there was no one there. When he turned back, the Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, stood facing him as if they had just been conjured up out of the ground.

  The twins were spinsters of the parish, still alike in their sixties, both having rigidly permed white hair and thick glasses.

  “Awful, her turning out to be a tart,” said Nessie.

  “Tart,” echoed her sister, who always repeated the end of what her twin had been saying.

  “How did you hear?” asked Hamish.

  “It was Mrs. Baxter, the councillor’s wife,” said Nessie. “Herself was down at Patel’s this afternoon. He’s got a special on tinned salmon. She bought ten cans! I said, ‘That’s not very fair. You should leave some for us locals,’ but she paid me no heed at all. So then I says, poor Annie Fleming, and herself whips around and says, ‘Annie Fleming was a whore.’ Just like that!”

  “Just like that,” echoed Jessie.

  “Mind you, I did always think she flaunted herself a bit. When are you getting married?”

  “Getting married,” put in the Greek chorus.

  “I have no intention of getting married,” said Hamish. He stalked off.

  Mark Lussie was not a baker. He worked in the bakery as a sort of odd-job man, carrying out trays of cakes, bread, rolls, pies, and buns to the shop from the back. He cleaned the windows, swept the floors, and cleaned the baking trays and the ovens, and all the time he dreamed of greater things. He no longer went to church. He had prayed to be married to Annie and God had let him down so God didn’t exist. He wanted to get out of Braikie and go to Glasgow or Edinburgh, or even London. He had very little in his bank as he had begun to find comfort in drink ever since Annie had introduced him to alcohol.

  He turned over and over in his mind everything Annie had said to him. And then like a lightbulb going on over his head as it did over the heads of the characters in the comics he liked to read, he remembered all of a sudden that Annie had said someone had threatened her and he remembered exactly who that someone was.

  At first, he saw himself standing up in court in his best suit, giving evidence and being photographed by the newspapers when he left the court.

  Then it dawned on him that such knowledge was money and money meant escape.

  When he finished work, he went out into the yard at the back of the bakery and lit a cigarette, a new vice. He took out his mobile phone and, looking around to make sure no one was about, dialled a number he had looked up in the phone book in the bakery.

  When the phone was answered, he asked to be put through to the person he wanted to speak to. “I know you killed Annie. She said you threatened her. Pay me two thousand pounds or I’ll go to the police. You know the war memorial on the hill above Braikie? Well, be there at midnight with the money or I’ll go straight to the police.”

  The voice answered in the affirmative and rang off. Mark stood there, his heart beating hard. He would go to London! Maybe he would be in a bar and this film star would chat him up and take him back with her to Hollywood. He would get away from his home where the new baby cried all night. What was his mother thinking about to go and have another child? And who was the father? She wouldn’t say. Mark’s own father had left his mother shortly after he was born. The church had been a comfort for a while on the long Scottish Sabbath days, but it had let him down in the presence of Annie and her father.

  He went back into the bakery and collected four mutton pies which had got a bit bashed and so he was allowed to take them home. There will be no mutton pies in London, he thought.

  Mark felt very nervous but he did not drink that evening. He was frightened of falling asleep. Before midnight, he crept quietly out of the house and made his way through all the sleeping silent streets under the light of a cold, pockmarked moon. The streetlights were switched off to save energy. The great stars of Sutherland blazed overhead.

  He walked through the town and up the grassy hillock where the war memorial stood, black against the starry sky. He glanced at the luminous dial of his watch. Five minutes to go. He looked up at the sky and saw that the northern lights had started to blaze in all their swirling glory. He had only seen them once before. What was it they called them in school? The aurora borealis, that was it. He felt the very heavens were celebrating the soon-to-happen escape of one Mark Lussie. Then he heard the town clock strike midnight and tore his gaze from the magnificence of the heavens and looked down the hill to watch for anyone approaching.

  He never heard the step behind him. A knife was thrust savagely into the back of his neck. Rough hands searched his pockets after he had slumped to the ground and took his mobile phone. Then his assailant crept away.

  Mark lay dying as the lifeblood pumped out from the wound in his neck. As the lights of the auro
ra borealis moved and swirled across the sky, Mark Lussie finally went on his last great journey.

  Roger Burton, Barry Fitzcameron’s hit man, crouched behind the sheep shed up on Hamish’s croft. He had instructions to make it look like an accident. But he planned to wait until Hamish Macbeth was asleep, get into the station, and simply shoot him. It would be easy to get into the police station. He had noticed one of the fishermen knocking at the door, carrying two fish. When he didn’t get a reply, he had felt in the guttering above the kitchen door, taken down a key, and unlocked the door. Then he had come out a few moments later, relocked the door, and put the key back up in the gutter. Because Barry had thought Roger meant to stage an accident and because the person to be killed was a police sergeant, he had paid him generously up front. Roger meant to do the deed and clear off to Glasgow.

  He waited until Hamish came back and then waited until finally the lights in the police station went off.

  He was just about to make his move when the northern lights began to blaze across the sky. He suddenly felt he should leave it-just take Barry’s money and run. But he was a professional and he had a reputation to keep. No one in the criminal fraternity of Glasgow would mind that he hadn’t staged an accident.

  He softly made his way towards the kitchen door.

  Sonsie awoke and pricked up her tufted ears. Because of the odd telepathy between the two animals, Lugs awoke as well. Sonsie sprang down from the bed where she and the dog had been sleeping and went to the kitchen door. Her fur was raised. Hamish was to wonder afterwards why Lugs had not barked.

  They heard the key in the door. Roger loomed up in front of them. When he saw the two animals he raised his gun but Sonsie, the wild cat, flew up at his face and tore her sharp claws down it while Lugs bit his leg. He howled and dropped the rifle.

  Hamish came running in. He picked up the rifle and ordered, “Stay there or I’ll shoot.”

  He scrabbled in the pocket of his coat hanging on the back of the door and produced a pair of handcuffs. “Over on your back,” he shouted.

  Roger rolled over, yelling, “I can’t see.”

  “It’s the blood,” said Hamish, clipping on the handcuffs. He grabbed his mobile from the kitchen table and called for help.

  It was to be a long night. The deep scratches on Roger’s face were tended to by the medical officer before he was judged fit for questioning. But Roger remained silent apart from saying he was going to sue Hamish Macbeth for the damage to his face. He would not say that anyone had hired him to kill Hamish. Hamish waited in the detectives’ room because Blair would not allow him to be part of the interview. He had asked them to find out Roger’s address so that the place could be searched before anything was destroyed but Blair had snarled at him that he was not in charge of the case and to type up his report.

  When Jimmy finally appeared, Hamish said desperately, “Have you an address? We’ve got to get round there. There may be something in his place that connects him to Barry Fitzcameron.”

  Jimmy rubbed the bristles on his foxy face. “I’m tired. We’ve been up all night, Hamish.”

  “Let’s just do it ourselves,” pleaded Hamish.

  “Oh, all right. It’s a house in Boroughfield, that suburb at the edge o’ the town.”

  * * *

  But when they got there, it was to find the blackened shell of what had been Roger’s home being checked by a fire inspector.

  “I’m sorry, Hamish,” said Jimmy wearily. “We should ha’ listened to you. Go home.”

  Before he went to bed, Hamish locked the door. As he fell asleep, he was dimly aware of Josie shouting through the letter box.

  Josie was alarmed when she did not get a reply. She phoned police headquarters and learned of the attempt on Hamish’s life. Then she was told to hold on. Police Sergeant Mary Southern came on the line.

  “Get over to Braikie right now and we’ll join you. A body’s been found at the war memorial.”

  Josie scribbled a note to Hamish and pushed it through the letter box before driving as fast as she could to Braikie. Trails of dark cloud were streaming in from the Atlantic, and the wind had begun to rise.

  She stopped in the main street, asked for directions to the war memorial, and then set off again. As she climbed the hill to the memorial, she could see that a small crowd had gathered. She pulled a roll of police tape and some posts out of the car and set off up the hill, shouting, “Get back! It’s a crime scene.”

  The little crowd backed away as she secured the site. Then she went forward and looked down at the body. Here was no horror such as she had seen when she had viewed Annie’s body. Mark Lussie lay as if at peace, his sightless eyes staring up at the windy sky.

  “Who found the body?” asked Josie, walking back to the crowd.

  A tall man stepped forward. “That’s me,” he said.

  “Name?”

  “Alec Templar. I wass up the brae looking after my sheep and I saw what I thocht was clothes by the memorial and went for a look. Poor wee laddie.”

  Josie felt the experience of being in sole charge of a murder case was very exciting, but it was short-lived. Police, detectives, and SOCO headed by Superintendent Daviot came hurrying up the brae.

  Daviot glared at Josie. “Why aren’t you suited up?”

  “I was rushing to secure the crime scene,” said Josie.

  “Don’t ever make such a mistake again. Where’s Macbeth?”

  “There was an attempt on his life last night and-”

  “I know that. So where is he?”

  “I think he must be asleep.”

  “Then get over to Lochdubh and wake him up. I need him here.”

  “I know the deceased,” said Josie tremulously. “We interviewed him yesterday.”

  “Name and address?”

  Josie gave them to him. “Shall I go and tell the parents?”

  “Just get Macbeth here!”

  Josie drove miserably back to Lochdubh and hammered on the police station door. She jumped as a voice behind her said, “There’s a spare key on a hook at the back of the henhouse. He used tae leave it in the gutter, but he changed it. He telt it tae me the ither day.”

  She swung round. A small man in a very tight suit stood looking at her. “I’m Archie Maclean,” he said. “Friend o’ Hamish’s.”

  “I’ve got to wake him up,” said Josie. “He’s wanted over at Braikie.”

  “I’ll leave you to it,” said Archie. “I only came for a wee crack.”

  Josie found the key and let herself in. She decided that instead of shouting to wake him, she would go into the bedroom and gently shake him by the shoulder. It was an intimate scenario.

  She went into the bedroom. The dog and cat were at the end of the bed. The large cat arched her back and hissed while her yellow eyes blazed. The dog barked.

  “Hamish!” screamed Josie, darting out the door and slamming it behind her before the cat could spring.

  The bedroom door opened and Hamish stood there wrapped in a shabby dressing gown. “What’s up?” he demanded.

  “There’s been another murder, sir. Mark Lussie.”

  “Make coffee,” ordered Hamish. “This all gets nastier and nastier.”

  Chapter Six

  *

  O woman, perfect woman! What distraction

  Was meant to mankind when thou wast made a devil!

  – John Fletcher

  Josie took one look at the cheap jar of instant coffee on Hamish’s kitchen counter and ran to Patel’s to buy a packet of real coffee. Returning to the police station, she made the coffee in a pewter jug by pouring boiling water over the grounds, sprinkling a little cold water on the top to settle them, and adding a small pinch of salt.

  Then she lit the stove and put the pot on top to keep the coffee warm. Hamish shaved and showered. In the kitchen, he gulped down two cups of black coffee. To Josie’s dismay, he didn’t seem to notice the difference from his usual brew.

  Hamish had in fact not
iced the difference and had seen the packet of real coffee but did not want to thank Josie in case she was encouraged to encroach on his home.

  Before he left the station he phoned Jimmy, who told him that Hamish had the job of breaking the news to Mrs. Lussie.

  “We’re off to see Mark’s mother,” said Hamish as they drove off. “What was that boy up to? Some way he put himself in danger by not telling us all he knew. Either that or he suddenly remembered something. Did he phone his killer and make an appointment? I wonder if he had a mobile phone. I hope we can find something to narrow the suspects down. I hate this sort of job-breaking bad news.”

  But when they arrived at Mark’s home, it was obvious the news had already been broken by the highland bush telegraph. Neighbours were crowded into a small living room, murmuring condolences as Mrs. Lussie sat and wept.

  “I would like a word with Mrs. Lussie,” said Hamish. “Will you all please wait outside?”

  A large woman protested. “ Cannae ye leave the wumman alone?” she cried.

  But Mrs. Lussie rallied. She dried her eyes and said, “I’ll speak to the sergeant. I want to find out who killed my boy.”

  “Now, Mrs. Lussie,” said Hamish. “Did you hear Mark go out last night?”

  She shook her head. “The baby was quiet for once so I got the first good sleep I’ve had in ages.”

  “Did he say anything at all that might be significant? Or did he look excited in any way?”

  She dabbed at her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief. “He didn’t say anything. He was reading a fillum magazine. Then we watched a bit o’ telly and he said he was tired and wanted an early night.”

  “Did he have a mobile phone?”