by M C Beaton
“You’re surely better at recognising strangers than me. This is your beat.”
“I’ll see you later.”
Hamish walked off, trying to shake off the strange feeling of foreboding. He stopped at a stall set up by a gun shop in Dingwall. He recognised the owner, John Morrison. “Looking for a gun, Hamish?”
“Maybe. I wass thinking of a deer rifle.” Hamish looked uneasily over his shoulder.
“What about this one?” John put a deer rifle on the counter. “This is a beauty. It’s the Remington 700CDL. This is the newest, best-looking remodelling of the old standby Model 700. It’s got a straight-comb American walnut stock with a satin finish, cut checkering, a right-hand cheekpiece, and a black fore-end tip and grip cap.”
“Got any ammo?” asked Hamish.
“Of course.”
“Load it up.”
“Hamish, I just can’t let you walk off with a loaded deer rifle.”
“Chust for a wee minute,” said Hamish. “I’ll take it ower to that mobile unit. I want to show that policewoman.”
“I suppose it’s all right, you being the law and all.” John deftly loaded it. “You shouldn’t be carrying a loaded gun. Now, just over there and right back.”
Hamish slung the gun over his shoulder, and then to John’s horror, he ran off, zigzagging through the crowds. On and on pounded Hamish, up into the hills to where there was a ring of standing stones. He moved behind one of the stones and looked down the brae.
Three men came panting up through the heather. He saw the sun glinting off their weapons.
Borne on the wind came the tinny sounds of a carousel at the games.
Hamish raised the rifle to his shoulder and focussed. He took aim and fired. One man screamed, clutched his leg, and fell down. Bullets cracked against the standing stones. Hamish fired again and got another of the men in the arm. The third turned to flee. Hamish ran out from his hiding place and shouted, “Stop right there or you’re dead.”
The man stopped and dropped his gun. Hamish ran down to him and handcuffed him. He took out his phone and called for reinforcements. He cautioned the man he had handcuffed and then walked to each of the fallen men and cautioned them as well.
Three police officers who had been working at the games along with Pat Constable soon came running up the brae to join Hamish. He told them shortly that there had been an attempt on his life.
There was a long wait while ambulance men arrived with stretchers to take the two wounded men away. Then the one he had handcuffed was led off down to the road, where he was put into a police car.
Hamish’s mobile rang. It was Jimmy Anderson. “I just heard the shout,” he said. “What’s been going on?”
“Three men came to kill me,” said Hamish. “I think you’ll find they had something to do with Freddie Ionedes. I’ve got something to wrap up here. I’ll be over to Strathbane as soon as I can.”
Hamish made his way quickly back to the games, fending off the excited questions from Pat Constable.
John Morrison came running to meet him. “Have you gone mad?”
“Look, John, I’ve got gun permits up to my ears. I felt I wass in danger. But I can hardly tell them I had a sixth sense that I was in danger.”
John broke open the rifle, sniffed the barrel, and unloaded it. “You’ve fired it.”
“Do this for me and I’ll buy it,” said Hamish, thinking miserably of his dwindling bank balance. “I’ll come over to Dingwall soon and pick it up.”
“They’ll come down on me like a ton of bricks for having let you run off with a loaded rifle.”
“I don’t think they will. Not if you say what I’m going to tell you to say…Please?”
“Oh, all right.”
“I want you to say that I was examining the deer rifle and you had just showed me how it loaded when I turned and saw the three men in the crowd. One of the men’s jackets blew open, and I could see he had a gun. I guessed they had come for me. I wanted to avoid a shooting match in the middle of the games, and that is why I ran off.”
“Where are you going now?”
“Strathbane.”
“Before you go, a cheque or credit card would be welcome. That’ll be five hundred and twenty-five pounds.”
♦
At police headquarters in Strathbane, Hamish was told that there would be a full enquiry into his shooting of the two men.
He groaned inwardly. Three gunmen had come after him, and yet he was the one who was to be investigated. He had endured a grilling from Daviot and had been told to wait for further questions.
He sat in the canteen and brooded over a cup of coffee, which tasted every bit as evil as the stuff he had at home.
He brightened up when Pat Constable came to join him. “I just heard you’ve got permission to go back to Lochdubh,” she said. “But you’re to report back here in the morning.”
“I suppose our date’s off,” said Hamish.
“On the contrary. It’s only seven o’clock. I’m off duty. Let’s just go.”
♦
Hamish began to relax over the meal. Pat was cheerful, undemanding company. Occasionally one of the locals would approach their table, eager for details of the shooting, but Pat fended them off with, “Leave the man alone for now. He’s had a bad shock.”
“The fact is, I haven’t,” said Hamish. “It all seems like a dream now.”
“You’ll probably suffer from a wee bit of delayed shock tomorrow,” said Pat. “Let’s just go back to that nice police station of yours and go to bed.”
Hamish could hardly believe his ears. “Oh, you mean, it’s time I went to bed,” he said cautiously.
She grinned cheekily. “No, I meant we. I’m propositioning you, Hamish Macbeth. We’re both single, and we’ve both had a hard day. We deserve some fun.”
“Just like that!”
“Why not?”
“I don’t have…er…and Patel’s is closed.”
“I have. Come into the twenty-first century, Hamish. Women don’t wait around to be asked any more.”
Back at the police station, while Pat used the bathroom, Hamish went into the police office. He looked thoughtfully at his answering machine. Then he unplugged it. He was not going to risk either Priscilla or Elspeth phoning him and spoiling things. Would it all be as casual as it seemed? Or would she expect some sort of commitment?
The hell with it, he thought. He had been celibate long enough.
♦
Freddie Ionedes sat on the bed in his cell and looked up at his lawyer, Simon Devize, otherwise known behind his back as Sleazy Simon.
“I want that Macbeth dead,” he said. “Tell Brandon.”
Brandon was his second in command.
“Brandon is going to point out that six of our people are already in the slammer thanks to your vendetta,” said Simon.
“He’ll do as he’s told,” growled Freddie. “Get on with it.”
Simon left the prison and got into his car and drove off. In his rear-view mirror, he saw a black BMW following him. When he considered he was safely clear of the prison, he stopped and got out. The BMW stopped behind him.
Simon went up to it. The passenger window lowered, and Brandon stared at him. “Well?”
“His orders are you’re to go after that highland policeman again.”
“He’s mad. Look, I’m in charge now. Tell him okay on your next visit. Keep him happy. He’ll die in prison. Someone’s got to run the show. But between ourselves, I’m not going to lose any more men. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.”
♦
Hamish slowly came awake. He felt a warm body next to his own and smiled sleepily, turned over, and threw an arm around his cat.
“What the hell!” He sat up in bed. The animals had been banished from the bedroom the night before.
There was a note on the pillow next to his own. He read, “Got to go on duty. See you later. Thanks for a great night. Love, Pat.”
&nb
sp; Could it be as easy as that? he wondered. No demands to see him again. No waiting around until he woke to make him breakfast.
He stretched and yawned, looked at the clock, and let out a yelp of horror. It was ten o’clock in the morning.
He had a hurried shower and shave and put on his uniform and had just finished when the kitchen door opened and Jimmy Anderson strolled in.
“Are they screaming for me?” asked Hamish.
“No, they’re too thrilled with the men you captured. They’re singing like canaries. Oh, what’s this note on the table? It says, “Got you some decent coffee. Love and kisses, Pat.” Well, well, well. Would that be Pat Constable?”
Hamish flushed angrily and snatched the note. “No, Pat is a frisky old lady in the village that sometimes gives me wee presents.”
“I should have known you wouldn’t be that lucky. Scotland Yard’s coming up again. Blair is ferreting around to see if he can take the credit for something.”
“How are the two I shot?”
“They’ll live. One clean shot through the arm on one, and one shot in the hip on the other. Blair tried to tell Daviot you were lucky. I pointed out you’d won shooting prizes all over the Highlands.”
“I hope it’s over and Freddie won’t send any more goons after me.”
“With all the information pouring out of the three, I think Freddie’s going to find his empire is being wound up in a few weeks’ time. I don’t think you’ve anything to worry about.”
“I’d better get over to headquarters,” said Hamish.
“Take your time. Everyone’s trying to get a bit of the action and keep you out of it.”
♦
Hamish followed Jimmy’s car over to Strathbane. All he could think of was seeing Pat again.
But as he drifted around the building that day, waiting to be interviewed again, he could not see her. By early evening, he was sitting in the canteen again, deciding to ask for permission to go home, when Pat suddenly appeared. She gave him a kiss on the cheek. “How are you, lover boy?”
“Great. Just about to ask permission to leave. No one seems to want to ask me any questions. I suppose I’d better enjoy it because when the enquiry comes along, I’ll have to suffer hours of questioning. Are you off duty?”
“Just finished.”
“What about coming back with me?”
“Can’t, Hamish. I’m nipping down to Inverness to see my boyfriend.”
Hamish looked at her in amazement. “Your boyfriend. Is it serious?”
“We’ll probably get engaged. We’ve been looking at a few houses.”
“Pat Constable, you are not only immoral but amoral.”
She threw him that cheeky grin of hers. “Grand, isn’t it?” She gave him a smacking kiss on the mouth and trotted off.
∨ Death of a Maid ∧
Epilogue
They sin who tell us love can die,
With life all other passions fly,
All others are but vanity.
—Robert Southey
Court cases over, evidence given, and a late spring smiling on the Highlands made Hamish feel that the bad days were over.
On one of his days off, he was lying in a deckchair in his front garden with his animals at his feet. Sometimes he thought of Elspeth and sometimes of Priscilla, but each time he banished the thoughts as quickly as possible. He would settle for being a bachelor. He had even refused an invitation to dinner from that pretty policewoman, Pat Constable.
When Mary Cannon’s face loomed over the garden hedge, he felt a stab of irritation at having his lazy day interrupted.
He got to his feet. “Come round to the kitchen door and don’t lecture me. It’s my day off.”
When Mary entered the kitchen, she said placatingly, “It’s my day off as well. I thought I’d see how you were getting on.”
“Fine. What about you?”
“Not bad. I’m enjoying being in Inverness now. Not so many chauvinist pigs around.”
“Tea? Coffee?”
“Tea, please. Do you always keep that stove on? It’s warm today.”
“I haven’t had a bath yet, and the back boiler heats the water. Saves a fortune on electricity bills. Did you see my new Land Rover? I’m right proud of it.”
“Very fine.”
“You know,” said Hamish, lifting down the teapot from a cupboard, “I still feel silly being tricked by Gloria. How was I to know she’d slip Rohypnol in my drink?”
“Look at it this way,” said Mary. “It was the last thing you would expect to happen to you in the north of snowbound Scotland. No one would have believed that Freddie Ionedes would dare to show his face anywhere in the country. All that rubbish about we look after our own. Probably Crystal told him if he didn’t finish you off, she’d talk about that other murder. As it was, of course she did. Imagine! A Labour MP, Mr. Sorley, man of the people, frequenting an expensive knocking shop like that? His wife was shattered.”
“She didnae get a chance to tell the paper she was standing by her man,” said Hamish cynically. “They aye do that.”
“She’s not too badly off. She’s married again. What about you? Still single?”
“Aye, and determined to stay that way.”
“Did that reporter get married?”
“I don’t know.”
Hamish filled the teapot and put mugs, sugar, and milk on the table.
“I could find out for you.”
“Let it be.”
“You know, I often wonder about that packet Mrs. Gillespie left for Mrs. Samson. I suppose we’ll never know what became of it now.”
♦
In his bedroom in a suburb of Toronto, Robert Macgregor, a lanky teenager, was clearing out his room. His father had said he’d take his belt to him if the mess hadn’t been cleared up by the time he got home.
Robert stacked old magazines and posters into rubbish bags. He fished under the bed and took out a supply of pornographic magazines to get rid of before his father arrived for the evening inspection.
He opened one of them for a last look, and a packet fell out on the floor. He picked it up. He’d need to get rid of it. He remembered that last year he had been sent down to the mailbox to collect the mail. There had only been this packet. He had tripped on the road back up the drive, and the packet had fallen in a puddle. Terrified of getting into a row, he had shoved the packet up under his sweater and then had shoved it inside that magazine under his bed.
From the address on the back, he knew it was from his great-aunt in Scotland, Flora Samson. He opened it up to see if there was any money in it, but it was only letters and a few photographs. There was a letter in spidery writing. It said, “My dear niece, I want you to keep this safe for me and post it back to me when I tell you to. Your loving aunt, Flora.”
He stuffed it into one of the rubbish bags. He remembered his mother had gone over for the funeral. His great-aunt was dead now, so it was probably not important anyway.
FB2 document info
Document ID: ae6644bc-baf4-4773-a29f-6a62445202a3
Document version: 1
Document creation date: 17.12.2012
Created using: calibre 0.9.9, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
Document authors :
M.C. Beaton
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M.C. Beaton, Death of a Maid hm-23
