by M C Beaton
“What’s up, Willie?” asked Hamish.
“Sonsie and Lugs were around the restaurant and I thought it was time to bring them hame.”
“You know where the key is, Willie. You shouldnae be standing here in the cold.”
“I don’t know where the key is. I tried the door but it’s locked. There’s someone inside moving about and that big cat flap is jammed shut.”
Hamish took out his own key and snapped open his baton. “Stand back, Willie,” he said quietly.
He quietly unlocked the door. Josie was standing over the stove, wearing a frilly apron over a short black dress and high heels.
“What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at, McSween?” roared Hamish. He swung round and looked down at the cat flap. It had been taped shut. “And why are my poor beasties out in the cold?”
“I-I th-thought it would be great to take you a meal and give the place a bit of a clean,” wailed Josie.
“Out!” shouted Hamish. “Get the hell oot o’ here and neffer, effer do anything like this again. Shoo! Get lost.”
Josie burst into tears. She seized her coat from a chair and ran out into the night.
“Wimmin,” said Hamish, taking out a clasp knife and beginning to slice the tape on the cat flap.
“Och, you was awfy hard,” said Willie. “The lassie meant well. Look how clean the place is.”
“It’s my home,” said Hamish. “Thanks for looking after my beasts, Willie.”
Willie left but Hamish was not to be left in peace for long. A wrathful Mrs. Wellington descended on him. “That poor girl is crying her eyes out, you brute. Instead of thanking her, all you did was shout at her.”
“She had no right to just invade my home-”
“It’s not a home. It’s a police station.”
“It iss my home. She shut my animals out in the cold.”
“What you need is a decent woman in your life. You will take Josie to that dance tomorrow and behave like a gentleman.”
Hamish refused to go to the manse with Mrs. Wellington and apologise. To Mrs. Wellington, Josie was the daughter she never had. She could not bear to see her so upset and so she lied and said that Hamish was really sorry and was looking forward to the dance.
When Josie went up to her room that night, she fished a bottle of whisky out from under her mattress and began to drink steadily. She had loved being in charge of the police station. She wanted to get married and never have to work as a policewoman again. As the whisky sank down the bottle, she came to a decision. She shook out tablets of Mandrax and, with the hilt of a knife, began to crush them into powder.
* * *
Hamish decided to take the Saturday off. He hoped as he went around his property, seeing to his sheep and hens, and making some repairs, that his mind might clear. He had too many suspects, all whirling around his brain.
After lunch, he walked along to visit his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.
“Come in, Hamish,” said Angela. “It’s all round the village that your poor policewoman was just trying to give the place a bit of a cleanup and make you supper, and you shouted the place down.”
“Angela, she locked my animals out in the cold. I’m investigating the murder of Annie Fleming who seems to ha’ been one manipulative bitch and I don’t want to have to deal with another one.”
“Now, that’s too harsh. She seems like a nice girl.”
“Oh, well, maybe I did go a bit over the top. The truth is, I got a real fright. I’m always worried that Roger Burton, the hit man, might come back to finish the job. Could you be looking after Sonsie and Lugs while I’m at the dance?”
“Didn’t you stop to think I might be going to the dance myself?”
“No, sorry.”
“Okay. Just this once. As it happens, I’m not going. How’s the murder investigation?”
“It’s a right mess. Too many suspects. If ever a girl was just asking to be murdered by some man, it was Annie Fleming.”
“Have a coffee and tell me all about it.”
So in between sips of Angela’s horrible coffee, Hamish outlined all that he had found out so far.
When he had finished, Angela said, “You’re concentrating on the men. Have you considered the women? I mean, you’d expect a man to bash her over the head or strangle her. Making a letter bomb takes time and plotting and planning. Your murderer might be one very jealous woman. There was a lot of ill feeling when Annie was elected to be the Lammas queen two times running. She could have put someone’s nose out of joint. To be Lammas queen means getting on TV and being interviewed and photographed in all the local papers. A lot of young people these days want instant fame without doing anything to get it. It’s all the fault of reality TV.”
“I’ll think about it. But right now, Angela, my poor head can’t bear the thought of any more suspects.”
Hamish had phoned the manse and said that he would meet Josie at the dance. He dressed in casual clothes and, followed by Sonsie and Lugs, walked along to Angela’s house.
“You’re a bit late,” said Angela.
“I’m reluctant,” said Hamish. “I’ll only go for a few dances and then clear off.”
“Josie’s quite pretty, you know.”
“Maybe I’m being hard on her, but there’s something awfy needy about her.”
“Male vanity, Hamish. That’s all it is. Now get along to that dance!”
Josie had refused all offers to dance. Her dreams of being held in Hamish’s arms had been shattered. It was to be an evening of Scottish country dancing and the hall was loud with the drumming of feet and the hoochs of the dancers as they swung one another around. Josie felt overdressed. Nearly everyone was wearing casual clothes whereas she was dressed in a short skirt with a plunging sequinned blouse and very high heels.
At last, she saw Hamish’s flaming-red head across the dance floor. Just as he came up to her, an Eightsome Reel was announced. “Shall we?” asked Hamish.
They joined a set and the band of fiddles, drums, and accordion struck up. Josie realised quickly the folly of wearing such high heels. She thought her ankles might break.
When the dance was over, Hamish said, “I could do with a drink. What about you?”
Josie picked up her evening bag from where she had left it and said eagerly, “That would be grand.”
There were only soft drinks on offer. “Orange juice?” suggested Hamish.
“Yes, thank you.” There was no barman. People just helped themselves. Hamish poured out two tumblers of orange juice and was about to hand one to Josie when Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher, came up just as a Strip the Willow was being announced. “Come on, you lazy copper,” she said. “This is my dance.”
“All right,” said Hamish. “But where’s your man?”
“Matthew’s working late.” Matthew was the editor of the Highland Times.
Josie watched as Hamish led Freda into the dance. Her eyes narrowed. She could have sworn Freda was flirting with him. She fished in her bag, took out the screw of paper containing the powdered Mandrax, and slipped it into one of the glasses of orange juice.
The energetic dance seemed to go on forever. Hamish crossed hands with Freda and danced down the line with Freda laughing up at him. Hamish may have been a lousy disco dancer but he was in his element when it came to Scottish country dancing.
At last it was over and Hamish and a big crowd approached the refreshment table. “Ah, orange juice. Just what I need,” boomed Mrs. Wellington. To Josie’s horror, she seized Hamish’s doctored drink and gulped it down.
A Gay Gordons was announced. Hamish turned reluctantly to Josie, but Archie Maclean came up and whispered, “Outside, Hamish.”
“Be back in a minute, Josie,” said Hamish. He followed Archie outside, where men were gathered passing whisky around.
Hamish stood chatting and drinking until there appeared four youths, helping a dazed Mrs. Wellington from the hall. “She’s come over faint,”
said one. “We’re just going to run her up to the manse.”
Josie appeared and said hurriedly, “I’d better go with her and make sure she’s all right.”
What if they called Dr. Brodie, worried Josie. He might suspect she had been drugged and order a blood test.
At the manse, Mrs. Wellington was heaved upstairs and laid on her bed. “I think I know what the matter must be,” said the minister. “My wife sometimes takes a sleeping pill and she takes high blood pressure medicine as well. She must have mixed up her pills.”
Josie felt a wave of relief. “If you think she’ll be all right, I’ll just go back to the dance.”
But when she returned to the hall, it was to find that Hamish had left. “Where’s Hamish gone?” Josie asked Archie Maclean.
“Och, when you werenae here, herself, Miss Halburton-Smythe, turned up and she and Hamish went off together.”
Josie felt outraged. How dare he! But there was still time to put her plan into action. She had Mandrax pills left. If she let herself into the police station and doctored a glass of whisky and left it on the kitchen table, with any luck Hamish might have a nightcap. If by any chance Hamish and Priscilla were there, well, she had an excuse. She could say she was calling to find out why he had left the dance so early.
Hamish was seated in the bar of the Tommel Castle Hotel, looking gloomily at Priscilla.
“Why Australia?” he asked.
“I’m a computer programmer, Hamish,” said Priscilla patiently. “The firm I was contracted to outsourced all the work to India and it’s happening all over London. I’ve got a chance of this job in Sydney. I love Sydney.”
“It’s awfy far away,” said Hamish miserably. “The hotel’s doing great. It’s not as if you have to work.”
“Hamish, ever since Daddy lost all his money and we had to turn our home into this hotel, I’ve liked to make my own money just in case Daddy decides to play the stock market again. I’m lucky to get such a good job in the middle of a recession. Didn’t you go to the dance with your policewoman?”
“I was bullied into it by Mrs. Wellington. I wish Josie McSween would just pack up and go back to Strathbane.”
“Why? She seems a nice enough girl.”
“There’s something clingy about her and she’s a rotten officer. She should never ha’ joined the police force.”
“So where are you in the case?”
“Nowhere-except for an idea of Angela’s. I’ve been checking up on all the men in the case. She suggests it might have been some woman.”
“I can see the wisdom of that. A jealous woman will go to any lengths.”
“Could you put me up for the night, Priscilla? I’ve a feeling if I go back home, Josie will be waiting for me.”
“I’ll find you something.”
Josie put the crushed tablets in a glass of whisky and placed it on the kitchen table. She stirred the contents with a spoon. Now, she thought, let’s hope he drinks it. I’ll come back around two in the morning and hope he’s asleep. She thought it a rare bit of luck that Hamish’s pets were away somewhere. She made her way back to the manse over the fields at the back so that no one would see her. At one point, she stopped and listened. She had an odd feeling of being watched. The night was still and cold. She hurried on, anxious to get to her room and to a bracing glass of whisky.
Roger Burton, crouched behind a dry-stone wall, watched her go. He had returned to finish the job of getting rid of Hamish. He felt his reputation was at stake. It had got around the criminal fraternity in Glasgow that the hard man, Roger, had been attacked by a cat.
Now he was primed and ready to kill not only Hamish but those wretched animals of his as well.
He eased his way down the back slope to the station. It was in darkness. He tried the door and then grinned. It was unlocked. He threw it open, rifle at the ready.
Silence.
He fumbled for the light and switched it on. He rapidly searched the small station. No Hamish. No animals.
He sat down at the kitchen table, facing the door, rifle at the ready. He saw the glass of whisky in front of him. Just the thing. He usually never drank until the job was over, but one wouldn’t hurt. He drank it down, wrinkling his nose at the taste and wondering whether it was moonshine from one of the illegal stills he believed to be up in the hills.
Then Roger began to feel so very sleepy. The hallucinatory effect of the drug began to take over. He felt he was back in his own flat in East Glasgow. He stumbled through to the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, crawled into Hamish’s bed, and fell asleep.
At two in the morning, Josie quietly made her way back to the police station. She frowned when she found the door unlocked. She should have remembered to lock it. She let herself in and switched on the light. The first thing she saw was the empty whisky glass on the table. Josie picked it up and scowled down at the remnants of white powder at the bottom of the glass. If Hamish saw that, he’d get it analysed. She rinsed it out, dried it, and put it up on the shelf with the others.
Now for action!
She went quietly into the bedroom. Her foot struck something on the floor. She looked down and found herself staring at a rifle. She switched on the bedroom light. Josie did not recognise Roger although after the murder of Barry his photograph had been in all the papers and he was lying with his face half buried in the pillow. She only knew it was not Hamish and let out a gasp of dismay.
Josie ran from the police station as if the hounds of hell were after her.
In the morning, Angela stopped outside the police station and said to Sonsie and Lugs, “Off you go.”
She watched until they had both disappeared through the large cat flap and then turned and walked away along the waterfront.
A sharp bark awoke Roger. He groggily struggled awake. The there was a menacing hiss. His startled eyes saw that damn cat staring at him, fur raised.
With a cry of terror, he leapt for the bed and straight for the kitchen door. The cat leapt on his back, digging her claws in. He howled and shook her off and, with blood running down his naked back, he fled along the waterfront to the alarm and amazement of the villagers out doing their morning shopping.
Nessie Currie was just about to get into her old Ford when a naked Roger dragged her from the car and dumped her on the road. Then he drove off, leaving her screaming.
* * *
Hamish was enjoying a leisurely breakfast at the hotel when he heard the news. He jumped in the Land Rover and set off in pursuit. He called Strathbane for backup. Roadblocks were hurriedly set up. All day long the search went on but Roger appeared to have disappeared into thin air.
How on earth could a bloody naked man just vanish?
It was only by evening when Nessie was coherent enough to be interviewed and the sedative Dr. Brodie had given her had worn off that she revealed she had been about to take a bundle of secondhand clothes from the village to a charity shop in Strathbane. When the report then came in from a man outside Inverness that a large woman had stolen his van, they realised that Roger had stopped to put on women’s clothes and a big felt hat, formerly the property of Mrs. Wellington. The van had a full tank of petrol and two spare tanks in the back. Nessie’s car was found dumped in a back street in Inverness.
The story was in all the newspapers the next morning. The comic side of it was fully exposed.
Here was a dreaded hit man who had gone to sleep in a police station, been attacked by a cat, run through the village naked, and escaped dressed as a woman.
Only Josie knew what had happened. She thanked her stars she had been wearing gloves when she had left the whisky.
Roger sat in his dingy flat and cursed his luck. Everything had been left behind: his false papers, false credit cards, mobile phone, and prized deer rifle, not to mention his car.
Two days later, he looked out of his window and saw a low black Mercedes stopping outside his flat. His heart sank as he saw crime boss Big Shug climbing out of the car.
Roger shoved a pistol in the waistband of his trousers and went to open the door.
Big Shug looked like a prosperous Glasgow businessman from his well-tailored coat to his shining shoes.
“Been reading about me, have ye?” asked Roger. “Come in.”
“I don’t go much by what the papers say,” said Big Shug. “But I’ve got a difficult job and I want you to off someone for me.”
Roger said cautiously, “Are you sure the person you want to off isnae me?”
“Come on, laddie. When have I ever let you down? This is a delicate one. It’s a woman. Anything against that?”
“Not a thing.”
“Why did you kill Barry?”
“He would have talked and the drugs would have been traced right back to you.”
“Aye, well, let’s get going.”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
“Who is she?”
“Tell you when we get there.”
Big Shug sat in the front with his driver and Roger sat in the back with one of his henchmen. No introductions were made. The Mercedes slid smoothly off.
“Where are we going?” asked Roger as the car began to drive along the Dumbarton dual carriageway.
“Relax, laddie. A wee bit before Helensburgh.”
A thin mist was hovering over the Gairloch as the Mercedes slid into a deserted building site. “Where is she?” asked Roger as he got out of the car.
“Along presently.”
Big Shug whipped a gun out and shot Roger in the stomach. “That’s one for Barry,” he said. “He was a pal o’ mine and he never would ha’ talked.”
He marched up to where Roger lay writhing on the ground and put two bullets into his head.
“Right, lads,” he said. “Get to work. This site’s held up forever waiting planning permission. Nobody’ll be along here for ages.”
His two henchmen dug a grave in the soft ground, dropped the body in, filled in the hole, and patted it flat with the backs of their spades.
They all got into the Mercedes and drove off.
Two little boys crouched behind a rickety wall of planks, having seen the whole thing. Rory Mackenzie was eight years old and his brother, Diarmuid, ten. “Do you think yon was real?” whispered Rory. “Maybe they was filming Taggart.” He was referring to a popular Scottish television crime series.
