Death of a Maid hm-23

by M C Beaton

“I like my comfort,” she said over her shoulder, “and I like to be on the ground floor.”

  The suite consisted of a pretty sitting room and a double bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Gloria. “How do you take your whisky? Straight?”

  “Just with a splash of water and not too much. I’ve got to drive back.”

  She picked up a bottle from a side table. “Take a look out of the window, Hamish. Is it still blocked with that drift? I asked them to clear it.”

  Hamish went to the window. “Pretty clear,” he said.

  He sat down on a sofa. She sat opposite him in an armchair. “Cheers,” she said, smiling at him over her raised glass.

  “Cheers.” Hamish took a sip, thinking she really had a beautiful face, thinking suddenly he had seen that face before.

  She put down her glass. “I’m just going to repair my make-up. Won’t be a moment.”

  Hamish was beginning to feel dizzy. He’d only had one sip. What the hell had she put in his drink? He knew now where he’d seen her – on that grainy video of the brothel. She had been one of the girls.

  Freddie Ionedes had gone missing. Was she still working for him?

  He decided to play along. He nipped over to the window, raised it, poured the rest of the drink in the snow, dived back to the sofa, slumped down, and closed his eyes just as she came out of the bathroom.

  He felt her standing over him, smelled her perfume, sensed instinctively that she was going to do something to make sure he was really unconscious. When she slapped him hard across the face, he nearly betrayed himself, but instead he allowed his body to sag sideways on the sofa. He heard her make a phone call. “All set,” she whispered.

  Then he heard the window being raised. Sounds of someone climbing in. A man’s voice said, “Good girl. Let’s get moving.”

  Gloria’s voice: “Do we have to do this, Freddie?”

  “I look after my own. Crystal wants him dead, and dead he’s going to be. No one will suspect anything. Did anyone see him coming into the hotel?”

  “No, the reception was empty when he arrived.”

  “Murphy’s outside, dressed in police uniform. He’s hot-wired the Land Rover. He’s bringing it round to the window. We’ll get this pillock out and into the back of the Land Rover. I’ll follow. Murphy knows where to go. If anyone sees him, they’ll think it’s this fool. All we do is lay him out in the snow, tip the Land Rover on its side. It’ll look as if he’s been thrown out. He’ll die in the cold before he ever gets a chance to come round. Tragic accident. You stay here and act the perfect guest.”

  “I thought the reception was empty,” Gloria said, “but what if someone saw him come in? He isn’t in uniform.”

  “Then say he got called out. He went back to the station to put his uniform on. You stay on here and act the perfect guest,” Freddie repeated.

  Hamish recognised the sound of his Land Rover.

  He heard Freddie say, “Climb in, Murphy. I’ll need your help getting him out.”

  Hamish found it an effort to lie like a dead weight as he was shoved out of the window and into the snow. Then he was heaved into the back of his Land Rover.

  As they drove off, Hamish cautiously slid his mobile phone out of his pocket. He texted Jimmy. Then he punched in Angela’s number, and when she answered, he whispered, “Hamish here. Danger. Freddie Ionedes is trying to kill me. Tell Strathbane. Set up roadblocks.”

  He had been trying for ages to get a new Land Rover. Now he was glad of its age and the noisy engine that had drowned out the sound of his whispered voice.

  As he had guessed, they only drove a comparatively short way. They wouldn’t want to get lost on the moors. They would stage the accident just off the main road, as the side roads were still banked up with drifts.

  The Land Rover stopped. Hamish was dragged out and carried to a deep drift at the side of the road and thrown in.

  “Shall we tip the Rover over on him?” he heard Murphy ask.

  “No, I don’t want a mark on him.”

  Hamish poked a finger upwards to give himself a breathing hole in the drift. He heard them panting and struggling as they tried to tip the Land Rover on its side.

  “It’s no use,” came Freddie’s voice. “Leave it. Let’s get out of here.”

  The cold was intense. Hamish fought against it. He did not want to die of cold after having survived this far.

  To his relief, he heard them driving off.

  He rose out of the snowdrift and climbed into the Land Rover, fishing for his keys and hoping the hot-wiring hadn’t messed up the engine. But the old vehicle roared to life. He turned the heater on full blast. He guessed they would take the road to Strathbane and then off down south. He set off in pursuit.

  ♦

  Freddie and Murphy were laughing as they drove slowly through the white wilderness. “I’m telling you, I’m a genius,” said Freddie. “Can’t you go any faster?”

  “The night’s so cold that the grit isn’t doing much. We’ll skid if we go any faster,” said Murphy.

  Murphy negotiated a corner and then swore. An old car was blocking the road.

  “Come on,” said Freddie. “Get out and help me move it.”

  They both approached the car and began to try to push it to the side of the road.

  Suddenly they were surrounded by a ring of men holding shotguns. “Get down on the ground,” shouted Willie Lament.

  Freddie reached inside his parka for his gun and was felled with the butt of a shotgun. Murphy whimpered with terror.

  Hamish Macbeth came driving up to a cheer from the men. He climbed down and handcuffed Murphy and cautioned him and then handcuffed the prone body of Freddie.

  The pair were taken down to the police station and locked in the cell. Hamish changed into his uniform and sent for Dr. Brodie to examine Freddie, who was showing signs of coming round.

  “He’ll have a big lump, and he’ll suffer from concussion,” said Dr. Brodie. “But he’ll live.”

  Willie Lamont, the waiter who had once been in the police force, came in with Gloria.

  “Shove her in the cell,” said Hamish. “The heavy mob’ll be along soon.”

  Freddie recovered full consciousness and began to swear. Hamish charged him with attempted murder, kidnapping, and carrying a firearm. He then turned and charged Gloria with aiding and abetting kidnapping and attempted murder.

  “He made me do it!” cried Gloria, her face streaked with tears.

  Hamish ignored her. He ushered Dr. Brodie out of the cell and turned and locked it.

  “Here they come,” said Dr. Brodie as the wail of sirens grew nearer.

  “I’ll be glad to get rid of them,” said Hamish.

  ♦

  It was a long night. Hamish had to follow the triumphant cavalcade of police vehicles to Strathbane, triumphant because the Northern Constabulary felt they had captured a dangerous criminal where Scotland Yard had failed.

  His eyes gritty with fatigue, Hamish typed out a long statement. Then he was tested to find out what sort of drug had been put in his drink, although he complained that there was probably ample evidence of it somewhere in Gloria’s hotel room. Then he was interrogated by Daviot.

  “If only you had married Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Daviot after Hamish had finished his account, “you would not be easy prey to every harpy who crosses your path.”

  “You’ve got your man, sir, and you wouldn’t have got him if he hadn’t come after me. And there’s one thing. That Land Rover of mine needs to be replaced. I cover a fair bit of the north of Scotland. What if it breaks down on an important job?”

  “We’ll see what we can do. It’ll need to stay here while the forensic team go over it. I’ll get a constable to drive you home. Have you typed up your report?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I don’t think we’ll be needing you further. Mr. Blair and I will do the interrogation. Some officers from Scotland Yard will be arriving tomorrow.”


  And Blair doesn’t want me around to steal any of the glory, thought Hamish cynically.

  A pretty police constable was waiting for him. She had a mop of black curly hair and a rosy face. “Pat Constable,” she said.

  “Pat what?”

  “Constable. And spare me the jokes.”

  “Been on the force long?”

  “Only a few months.”

  He leaned back in the seat of the police car, glad to be going home at last. He would have liked to sleep, but Pat kept asking him questions about the events of the night and Hamish found he was so bored with the sound of his own voice going over the whole thing again that he could have screamed.

  As he got out stiffly from the car, highland courtesy demanded that he offer the constable some refreshment, and to his dismay, she accepted. He hoped his cat would take one of its rare dislikes to her and frighten her off, but Pat was intrigued by Sonsie and made such a fuss of the animal that the cat’s deep purrs reverberated around the kitchen.

  Hamish made tea and produced a tin of biscuits. Pat had just come on the night shift and was as bright as a button. She told him all about her family in Dornoch, about her time at the police academy, while Hamish stifled his yawns and sent prayers up to the old Celtic gods to make her go.

  At last, she rose to leave. “Maybe we could have dinner together one evening,” she said.

  “Aye, maybe,” said Hamish, resisting an urge to put his hand in the small of her back and shove her out the door.

  She turned out to be one of those irritating people who get up to leave and then stand in the doorway chattering away.

  She finally left. He sighed with relief. He walked like a zombie into his bedroom, fell facedown on the bed, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

  ♦

  Hamish was awakened at ten the next morning by a loud hammering at the front door.

  I’m not going to answer that, he thought. Probably the press. The knocking grew louder, and a voice shouted, “Scotland Yard. Open up.”

  Groaning, Hamish went to the front door and shouted through the letter box, “Come round to the kitchen door. This one’s jammed with the damp.”

  He went to the kitchen door and opened it, suddenly sharply aware of his unshaven face and scruffy clothes as two smartly dressed men wearing expensive parkas over their suits came round the corner.

  “Police Constable Hamish Macbeth?”

  “That’s me.”

  “I am Detective Chief Inspector Burrows from Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Wilkins.”

  “Come ben,” said Hamish. “I’m just up. It was a long night. I’ll make up the stove.”

  Burrows watched with some amusement as Hamish raked out the stove, put paper and kindling in it, and struck a match. He had sensed in talking to Daviot and Blair that the detective abilities of Hamish Macbeth were being kept out of the picture, and he had decided to see the man for himself. He saw a tall, sleepy highlander with flaming red hair and almost guileless hazel eyes.

  “Please sit down,” said Hamish, adding slabs of peat to the blaze. “Tea?”

  “We’ve brought our own supplies,” said Burrows, lifting a carrier back onto the table. “We’ve a couple of thermoses of coffee and some croissants. And a bottle of whisky.”

  “That was really thoughtful of ye,” said Hamish. “Where did you get croissants in Strathbane?”

  “I gather it’s a new bakery.”

  “Won’t last,” said Hamish. “They prefer things like deep-fried Mars bars.”

  They all sat round the table. Burrows was a clean-cut man with neat features, while his sergeant was large with a great round head.

  “What we would like,” said Burrows, “is to hear your version of events, starting with the murder cases. My God! What the hell’s that? A lynx?”

  “That’s my cat,” said Hamish patiently. “Please may I have some coffee, and no, I don’t want any whisky in it.”

  He began at the beginning again. Although he tried hard to make it look as if he had been nothing more than a bumbling local policeman who had hit upon clues by sheer accident, Burrows was not deceived.

  After Hamish had finished, Burrows said, “I think you should be due for a promotion.”

  He was startled by the look of alarm on Hamish’s face. “Who iss talking about promotion?” asked Hamish nervously.

  “None of them at Strathbane. But I was going to put in a recommendation.”

  “Please don’t do that, sir.”

  Wilkins spoke for the first time. “He likes it here, sir. I like it here. I’ve been looking out the window at the sheep. I like looking at sheep.”

  “Dear me. A country boy at heart? Is he right, Macbeth?”

  “Aye. You see, you need a village policeman in this part o’ the world. If I got a promotion, they would shut down this police station. The folks from Strathbane would never think of checking on the old folks in the outlying crofts. They talk about community policing, but there’s damn little of it I can see.”

  Said Burrows, “You mean you have no ambition whatsoever?”

  “There iss the one thing.”

  “And that is?”

  “I need a new Land Rover. If you could put a word in for me about that.”

  “I’ll do my best. We’d better get going. It might snow again.”

  “A thaw is coming.”

  “How do you know? Seen the weather forecast, have you?”

  “No, I can always feel it.”

  ♦

  The two Scotland Yard officers drove south to Strathbane. “Look, sir, the snow is melting,” said Wilkins.

  “Strange man that Macbeth,” said Burrows. “He really needs a good strong push up the ladder. He shouldn’t be rotting in a country village.”

  “He’s not rotting, sir,” said Wilkins vehemently. “He’s happy. Why is it that no one can stand a happy, contented, unambitious man?”

  Burrows gave a reluctant laugh. “I’ve never met one before. I want to change him into one of us. Calm down. I’ll leave him alone.”

  ∨ Death of a Maid ∧

  11

  The best laid schemes o’mice and men

  Gang aft a-gley.

  —Robert Burns

  Spring came reluctantly to the Highlands, crawling in on sleety gusts of wind. Then one day, the sun shone down from a cloudless sky. The air of Lochdubh was filled with the sound of vacuum cleaners and flapping dusters as the inhabitants got down to the annual spring cleaning.

  Hamish Macbeth, now proud possessor of a brand-new Land Rover, felt it was time that he, too, did some spring cleaning.

  As he worked away, his mind seemed to be waking up again after the long, cold winter.

  He found himself wondering how the one-time suspects in the murder cases were getting on now that they no longer had any fear of the police prying into their private lives.

  Thanks to the new cat flap, Sonsie and Lugs could get in and out of the house whenever they wanted. He left his chores and drove off towards Braikie, marvelling at the glory of the day.

  Even the sea along by the shore road was quiet, with only little glassy waves curling on the beach.

  His thoughts turned reluctantly to Elspeth. Was she married? Was she happy? Would he ever see her again?

  ♦

  At that moment, Elspeth was arriving at the church in Glasgow in a carriage drawn by two white horses donated by her Gypsy relatives. Beside her sat her uncle Mark, uncomfortable in his wedding finery. The best man, Luke’s fellow reporter James Biddell, came up to the carriage. “Drive around again,” he said. “Luke hasn’t arrived.”

  “Where is he?” demanded Elspeth.

  “We finished up the stag party at four this morning. He said he was going back to his digs. I called round, but he wasn’t there.”

  “I’ll murder the bastard,” grated Uncle Mark. “Drive on.”

  If only I had insisted on a closed limo, thought Elspeth. Crowds were gathering to see the bride. By
the time they came round to the church again, a procession had formed behind the carriage.

  But there was James shaking his head. “You didn’t do anything nasty to him?” asked Elspeth. “You didn’t tie him up to a lamp post or something?”

  “Nothing like that,” said James shiftily. How could he tell Elspeth, looking so beautiful in her white wedding gown, that they had hired a stripper for the evening and that drunken Luke had gone off with her?

  “I’m getting down,” said Elspeth. “I’m not going to make a spectacle of myself, driving round and round.”

  Groaning and wheezing and complaining that his collar was strangling him, Uncle Mark helped her down and led her into the church.

  Elspeth’s two bridesmaids were waiting in the church porch. From inside the church came the sound of the organ and the impatient rustling and whispers of the guests.

  Gazing out at the blue sky above the grimy Glasgow buildings, Elspeth suddenly wished herself back in the Highlands. Did she really want to marry Luke? Somehow the whole thing had gained momentum: presents from the staff, arrangements for the reception.

  Half an hour passed. Elspeth turned to her uncle. “Get in there and tell them the wedding’s cancelled but they can all go on to the reception and get something to eat and drink.”

  “Don’t worry, lass. We’ll hunt him down and drag him to the altar.”

  “I won’t marry him after this,” said Elspeth. “Get on with the announcement.”

  So the announcement was made, and the guests made their way out to the cars. Elspeth refused to get back into the carriage and shared a car with her editor. What a mess! They were due to leave on their honeymoon that very day. Luke had the air tickets to Barbados.

  The reception, fuelled by good food and a lot of drink, turned out to be a noisy affair. After the meal, Elspeth took the floor for the first dance with James. She felt suddenly very happy and relieved. She realised with a shock that she had been dreading this wedding, dreading being married to Luke.

  ♦

  Luke awoke with a groan and stared up at a dingy, unfamiliar ceiling. He rolled over and collided with a body in the bed next to him. “Elspeth?” he said.

  The woman next to him opened eyes heavy with mascara and stared at him.