by M C Beaton
“But I can’t. I love you.”
“Josie, just go. If it was a one-night stand, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Take yourself off to your mother’s and leave me in peace for a bit. Maybe some bastard gave me a mickey at that party. I’ll go to Brodie and get a blood test taken and then go over to forensics and get them to analyse it.”
Tears running down her face, Josie dressed, put on her coat, and staggered from the police station. This was a nightmare. It would all lead back to her, she was sure of it. Hamish would soon realise she was the one who was interested in drugging him.
To her relief, Mrs. Wellington was out when she got back to the manse. Josie packed her suitcase, went downstairs, and left a note on the kitchen table for Mrs. Wellington before going out to her car and driving off, squinting through her tears.
Hamish hurried to Dr. Brodie’s surgery and got the doctor to take a blood test and a urine sample. “Give them to me,” ordered Hamish, “and I’ll take them over to forensics.”
“Hamish, no one else at the wedding has been in here to complain of any ill effects.”
Hamish drove quickly to the forensics lab. Lesley regarded him impatiently when she heard his request. “We’re backed up, Hamish. You should have left the doctor to send them to the hospital lab.”
“Chust dae this,” snapped Hamish. “Someone tried to drug me. I’m sure of it.”
“Oh, leave it,” said Lesley. “We’ll do our best.”
When Hamish had left, her husband, Bruce, asked, “What was that about?”
“Hamish has left us his blood sample and urine sample. He wants a rush on it. He thinks he’s been drugged.”
“We’ve got too much to do,” said Bruce, who was jealous of Hamish because he knew his wife had at one time been keen on the policeman. “Shove them in the fridge.”
“But what do I tell him when he starts nagging on the phone?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sakes, tell him he’s clear. We can’t be wasting time on one damn highland policeman.”
Hamish stood outside the lab and phoned Jimmy. “Where are you?” he asked.
“I’m in the pub.”
“It isn’t even noon yet!”
“What are you? The Temperance Society?”
“I’m coming to see you. I’ve got a breakthrough.”
“It’s the pub next to headquarters.”
“What if Blair finds me there?”
“He won’t. He’s down at the docks.”
Jimmy was sitting at a corner table in the pub. “What’s all the excitement about?”
Hamish told him about the tape and about the look on Jamie Baxter’s face.
“Och, come on, laddie!” said Jimmy when he had finished. “He’s a respectable man wi’ an impeccable background.”
“What is his background?” asked Hamish. “You told me you had checked all my suspects.”
“He was in special forces in Northern Ireland.”
“Was he now? Jimmy, what better place to find out all about bomb making? Didn’t you connect the dots? You should ha’ told me about this. I want a warrant.”
“You’ll need a lot more evidence to get a warrant than a look on a man’s face months ago.”
“I’m going over to have a word wi’ him.”
“Well, mind how you go and if the shit hits the fan and he starts howling to Daviot, I’ll swear blind it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”
At the town hall, Hamish asked Jessie Cormack where her boss was. “He’s gone to Edinburgh with his wife,” said Jessie. “There’s some function or other they have to attend.”
Hamish went back outside and climbed into his Land Rover. He had to get inside Jamie’s house.
Dressed in black, he left his police station that night at two in the morning. He had borrowed an old Volvo from Iain at the garage, not wanting the Land Rover to be seen anywhere near the Baxters’ house.
It was a dark, cold, misty night. He parked the Volvo some distance away and made his way along a lane at the back of the Baxters’ house. The garden gate was locked but he climbed nimbly over it and dropped down into the garden. He had not noticed any sign of a burglar alarm on his previous visits to Cora. He opened a small backpack, took out his forensic coveralls, and put them on, even covering his boots. He did not want any trace of him to be found in the house.
He took out a ring of skeleton keys and got to work on the back door, hoping it was not bolted on the other side. Householders often did not realise how effective a bolt could be.
At last the lock clicked open and he slid quietly into the kitchen. His pencil torch flickered over the sterile kitchen’s gleaming surfaces. He made his way from the kitchen into a square hall. He looked briefly into the downstairs living room and dining room before making his way quietly up the stairs. He hoped Jamie had a study.
He found it beside the main bedroom. Thanking his stars the study was at the back of the house, he sat down at Jamie’s desk and began to go through the drawers. The bottom one was locked. He worked steadily with a skeleton key, not wanting to force the drawer. His heart sank when all he found were pornographic magazines and a bottle of whisky.
He flicked the torchlight around the room. There was a small wall safe. If there is anything incriminating, it will be in there, thought Hamish. But how to get the combination?
He searched the desk again, hoping that Jamie might have written the combination somewhere. He took out all the drawers and looked at the back. Nothing. He replaced the drawers and switched on Jamie’s computer. There was a file for addresses and telephone numbers. He opened it up. He recognised Annie’s home number and work number. He studied all the names and was about to give up when he saw a name in the middle-McPeter. Peter was slang for “safe.” Beside it were six numbers with the area code for Braikie. He knew a lot of people tried to keep numbers secure by making them look like a phone number. He scribbled the number in a small notebook and then went over to the safe.
He moved the dial, squinting down at the numbers he had written. He let out a low whistle of satisfaction when the door swung open. Inside were various letters from building contractors. It seemed as if Jamie had been giving contracts to friends for a payoff. There was a manila envelope. He pulled it out and took it over to the desk. Inside was a smaller envelope containing photographs. He slid them out. They were of Annie, either naked or wearing fishnet stockings and a suspender belt. He put them to one side and studied the rest of the contents. There was a book on bomb making.
He went back to the safe and pulled out a metal box. He took it to the desk and opened it. Inside was a cutthroat razor and bottles of chemicals. The fool, thought Hamish. The vain murderous fool! He was proud of what he had done. He probably sat in his office, gloating over his trophies.
Hamish spread all his finds on the desk, risked switching on the lights, and, taking out a small, powerful digital camera, began to photograph the evidence. Then he carefully put everything back the way it was and locked the safe.
Mr. Patel was roused at seven in the morning by Hamish hammering on the door of his flat above the shop. “What is it, Hamish?” he asked.
“I need to use that machine in the shop for printing photos.”
“At this time o’ the day?”
“It iss top secret.”
“Oh, come round to the front and I’ll let you in.”
In the shop, Hamish slid the memory card into the machine and then waited while the photos were printed off. He had told Mr. Patel not to look.
“I hope that all did ye some good,” said Mr. Patel when he had finished. “I just hope it isnae your holiday photos.”
“I’ve forgotten what a holiday’s like,” said Hamish. “I’ll take a packet o’ these manila envelopes.”
* * *
Hamish went back to the police station and, still wearing latex gloves, wrote SUPERINTENDENT DAVIOT in block capitals on an envelope, addressed it, and then put all the photographic evidence inside. He typed out a
note: “Evidence from Jamie Baxter’s safe.” He steamed off an old stamp and put it on the envelope.
He couldn’t bear to post it and have to wait until it was delivered, fearing that Jamie would destroy everything before a search warrant could be issued. He went through to his bedroom, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the faint smell of sex from his bed, and rummaged under the bed where he kept a box with some disguises. He selected a black wig, glasses, a black moustache, and a cap. He changed out of his regulation boots and put on an old pair of trainers.
Lugs and Sonsie looked at him hopefully but he said, “Be good. I won’t be long.” The animals eyed him curiously as he put on his disguise.
He opened the kitchen door and peered out. Nobody was around. He got into the Volvo and drove off to Strathbane. He parked some way away from police headquarters and then walked towards the building.
To his delight, he saw a postman just getting out of his van. As the postman walked towards the building, carrying a pile of mail fastened with a rubber band, Hamish called to him. “You’ve dropped one.”
He handed the postman the envelope. “I don’t know how that could have happened,” said the postman. “But thanks.”
Hamish went back to Lochdubh, stopping on the way to strip off his disguise and the clothes. He left the car at the garage in the village. Back at the police station, he got an old oil drum out of the shed and put the disguise in it. He went in, changed into his uniform, got his forensic suit and boots, and threw them in as well. He added the clothes he had been wearing when he had broken into the Baxters’ home. On a sudden impulse he ran indoors and stripped his bed and stuffed the sheets and pillowslips on top. Then he remembered the memory card from his camera. He added that as well. He poured petrol over the lot and set it on fire.
He was suddenly exhausted, and that exhaustion brought back unhappy memories of waking up next to Josie. When everything in the oil drum had burnt down to black ash, he went indoors. He put his head down on the kitchen table and fell asleep.
He was awakened three hours later by the shrilling of the phone. He struggled to his feet and went to answer it. It was Jimmy. “Hamish, we’ve got evidence on Jamie Baxter. We’re heading over there with a warrant. Want to be in at the kill?”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“You weren’t breaking and entering last night by any chance?”
“Would I ever? See you soon.”
Cora was driving as the black BMW moved into the Baxters’ street. “Wake up, Jamie,” she said, nudging her husband in the passenger seat. “What are all these policemen doing outside our house? Oh, stop them! They’re about to break the door down!”
But Daviot had seen their car arriving and told the men with the battering ram to wait.
Jamie got slowly out of the car followed by his wife. “What is going on here?” he demanded.
Daviot handed him a search warrant. “Open up,” he said. “You wait here, Mrs. Baxter. A policewoman will look after you.”
Hamish drove up just as Jamie was being ushered into his home. Cora looked at him, her eyes blazing with hatred. “You!” she spat out.
He walked into the house and straight up the stairs to the office. Daviot was standing in front of the safe, flanked by Blair. “Open it!” he ordered Jamie.
Jamie gave a grin like a rictus and patted his pockets. “I lost the combination. I meant to get on to the company, and-”
“Stop havering, man,” yelled Blair. “Open the damn thing or we can all wait here till I get someone to blast it open.”
Jamie’s shoulders sagged. He twisted the dial, and the safe swung open. He stood, head hanging, as Daviot went through the contents. He held up the cutthroat razor.
“If I might have a look,” said Hamish.
“Get back to your sheep and leave this tae the experts,” said Blair.
“What is it, Macbeth?” asked Daviot as Hamish drew on a pair of latex gloves and took out a powerful magnifying glass. He studied the razor. “There’s a bit o’ blood just between the handle and the blade,” said Hamish. “If you get that examined, you’ll probably find it’s Percy Stane’s.”
Daviot charged Jamie with three murders. He was led outside. He saw his wife and screamed, “You bitch! You told them!”
Daviot said wearily to Blair, “Charge Mrs. Baxter with being an accomplice. Take her in for questioning.”
Jimmy drew Hamish aside. “Was it you that sent the photos?”
“What photos?” asked Hamish. “Listen, put in a word for wee Josie. If it hadnae been for her sharp eyes, I’d never have got on to Jamie.”
“Are you coming back to Strathbane for the interviews?”
“No, I’m going back home. Thank God, it’s all over,” said Hamish Macbeth, blissfully unaware that trouble of another sort was looming on his horizon.
When he got back to the police station, he phoned the forensic lab and spoke to Bruce. “Have you got my results?”
Bruce had just been phoned to stand by for a rush job on the razor. Why should he bother with a pillock like Hamish? So he said, “We checked them. Nothing at all.”
“Nothing!”
“Clean as a whistle.”
Hamish rang off and stared miserably into space. He realised that he had recently come to the conclusion that Josie had drugged him. How else would he have gone to bed with her?
Flora was worried about her daughter. Josie kept mostly to her room, playing dreary pop tunes over and over again. She did not know that Josie was waiting in dread for the results of Hamish’s tests.
So that when her mother climbed the stairs to tell her Hamish was on the phone, she turned chalk white. But she decided she had better get it over with.
She went slowly down the stairs and picked up the phone. “Hullo,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Good news,” said Hamish. “We’ve cleared up the murders and it’s all thanks to you. We got Baxter this morning. When are you coming back?”
“Have you had the result of those tests?”
“Yes, I got them and there’s nothing there. Look, I’m awfy sorry. I don’t know what came over me. Let’s chust forget the whole thing.”
“I’ll be back tomorrow,” said Josie.
Her mother was amazed at the transformation in her daughter. Josie’s eyes were shining, and colour had returned to her face.
“What did he say?” she asked.
“He said it’s thanks to me those dreadful murders have been solved.”
“Oh, so that’s what’s been hanging over my wee girl. Maybe you’re just not suited to the force, Josie. All those dreadful deaths! Why don’t you get out the house? Go and see Charlotte. You used to be such friends.”
“I’ll do that,” said Josie, thinking of Charlotte ’s generous drinks cabinet. Flora had begun to suspect her daughter was drinking too much and so there was no liquor in the house.
Josie made her way to her friend’s home. Charlotte had recently got married to a local builder. To Josie, Charlotte ’s bungalow seemed like a dream, from its ruched curtains at the windows to the fitted carpets throughout.
Charlotte, a chubby, cheerful girl, hugged Josie and said, “You’re just in time.”
“What for?”
“I’m about to crack open a bottle of champagne. I’m pregnant. I got one of those kits that advertises it can tell you you’re pregnant before you know it yourself. See! Look at that blue line. You sit down, pet, and I’ll open the champers.” Charlotte opened the door of the drinks cabinet and the tinkling strains of “Highland Laddie” filled the room. Josie stared down at the pregnancy kit as if mesmerised. If only Hamish had really seduced her and she had got pregnant, he’d need to do the honourable thing.
“Here you are,” said Charlotte, handing her a glass.
“Congratulations,” said Josie. She took a gulp of champagne and felt the relief of having alcohol once more coursing through her body.
She had been to school with Charlotte
and so they drank and talked about former school friends.
A car drew up outside. “That’s my Bill!” said Charlotte and ran out to meet him.
Josie opened her handbag and slid the pregnancy kit inside.
When they came in, arm and arm, Josie got to her feet. “I’ll leave you to it,” she said. “Congratulations again.”
“Let me show you the pregnancy kit,” said Charlotte. “Damn. Where is it? I’m so excited I can’t remember where I put it. Never mind. I’ve made an appointment with the doctor tomorrow to get it confirmed.”
“Should you be drinking?” asked Bill.
“I’m going to get right blootered and then I’m not going to drink another thing until the baby is born. Open up another bottle!”
Josie stopped at the supermarket where they sold bags of ice. In her car outside, she dropped the kit into the ice, wrapped in a polythene bag. The day was freezing so she hid the bag in the garage.
Hamish phoned Jimmy the next day. Josie had arrived and he had told her to do the rounds of the faraway areas. “So did he confess?” asked Hamish.
“That he did. When we told him his wife had turned on him, he cracked. I think he’s a haggis supper short o’ the neeps. He was obsessed wi’ Annie and added to that he’s as arrogant as the devil. She lost interest in him and he decided to get rid of her in the nastiest way he could think of.”
“What about Cora? Has she been charged as an accomplice?”
“She has. But she’ll get off lightly. She’ll even make bail.”
“Why?”
“She said she was terrified of him.”
“Nothing terrifies a woman like Cora.”
“Hamish, the poor woman was married to a triple murderer. She said she couldn’t bear it any longer so it was she who sent in yon package of photos.”
“I don’t believe it for a minute.”
“Well, that’s what she’s saying. Wasn’t you, was it?”
Hamish thought quickly. It would do no good to tell Jimmy the truth because in order to prove Cora wrong, he would need to admit to having broken into the Baxters’ home.
