Death of a Kingfisher

by M C Beaton

  The two men were seated outside their tent, cooking sausages on a frying pan over a camp stove. They were both skinheads, covered in prison tattoos.

  “Whit does the filth want wi’ us?” demanded one of them.

  “I’m looking for two stolen cars,” said Hamish.

  “Whit’s that got tae dae wi’ us?”

  Hamish looked around. Next to the brothers’ tent was a large bell tent with the front flap tightly closed.

  “What’s in there?” he asked.

  “Naethin’ tae dae wi’ us,” said the one who seemed to be the elder.

  “Then you won’t mind if I have a look.”

  They both stood up. One reached down and picked up a tyre iron. “Get lost, copper,” he snarled.

  Hamish reached out, seized the arm holding the tyre iron, and twisted it hard. The man let out a yelp of pain and dropped it. His brother tried to run but Dick stuck out a foot and tripped him up. They cuffed both of them. Hamish then looked in the bell tent and found the cars. He charged both of them with theft. He phoned headquarters in Strathbane and was told to stay on guard until a police van arrived to take them away. To make sure the brothers did not try to escape, even though they were handcuffed, Hamish forced them down on the ground and dragged their trousers around their ankles.

  He turned round to tell Dick to put the stove out only to find that Dick had served himself sausages on a paper plate and was busily eating them.

  “You’re a disgrace,” complained Hamish.

  “It’s not as if they’re evidence,” said Dick through a mouthful of sausages. “These are rare good. I wonder if they got them locally?”

  Back at the police station after what seemed like a long day and having completed all the necessary paperwork, Hamish retreated to the kitchen. From the living room came the noisy sounds of a television game show. He put his head around the living room door and shouted, “Mince and tatties for supper?”

  Dick reluctantly lowered the sound, the remote control clutched firmly in one chubby hand. “What’s that?”

  “I asked you if you wanted mince and tatties for your supper?”

  “Oh, aye, grand,” said Dick.

  “I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

  Dick threw him a pleading look. “Could I no’ just eat my meal in here in front o’ the telly? Just the once?”

  Hamish thought wryly that Dick looked like a child pleading with a stern parent. “Oh, all right. But don’t you start dropping food on the floor!”

  Dick smiled and blasted up the sound again.

  It wasn’t as if the man was deaf, grumbled Hamish to himself. It was almost as if by jacking up the sound, he could be part of the show itself. “I’ve spoiled him,” said Hamish to Lugs and Sonsie. “I’ve been happy just to go on as if I’m still on my own. But tomorrow, no more deck chair for Dick. He can come out on the rounds with me. Also, he’d better begin to do his share of the cooking.”

  He knew Dick was a widower whose wife had died ten years ago. He seemed to have no idea at all of household work and had even on one occasion plaintively asked Hamish to show him how the vacuum cleaner worked.

  But the man was pleasant enough, and it didn’t look as if any major crime was ever going to happen again.

  The morning would prove Hamish wrong.

  He was frying up bacon and eggs while Dick watched a breakfast show on television when the phone in the office rang.

  When he answered it, Mary Leinster gasped out, “It’s me. Mary. Come quickly. They’ve hanged him! In the glen,” and rang off.

  Hamish erupted into the living room and yelled, “Turn that damn thing off. We’ve got a murder!”

  Chapter Two

  Bonnie wee thing, cannie wee thing,

  Lovely wee thing, wert thou mine,

  I wad wear thee in my bosom,

  Lest my jewel it should tine.

  —Robert Burns

  An hour later, Hamish Macbeth stood in the beauty of the Fairy Glen while the bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, lambasted him.

  “You daft gowk!” he roared. “You drag the whole works out here for that?” His boozer’s face and bulging eyes swung round at the phalanx of police, detectives, scene of crimes operatives, press, and local television.

  “That” was the dead body of the kingfisher. It had been hanged. Its limp dead body fluttered in the breeze. A thin cord was around its neck and then tied to a branch of the weeping willow.

  “Sir,” said Hamish, “Mrs. Leinster reported there had been a murder in the glen. She did not say a bird had been killed. It was my duty to phone it in and come here directly. I tried to call you.”

  Blair scowled. His police radio in his car had been switched off because he had been listening to a CD of Dolly Parton. He was a fat Glaswegian, thickset, with thinning hair and a fat face crisscrossed with little red broken veins. He detested all highlanders in general and Hamish Macbeth in particular. He was delighted with the fact that Strathbane Television was filming his rant at Hamish.

  Mary Leinster pushed forward. “It is all my fault,” she said. “But this is a dreadful act.” Tears like crystal ran down her face. “I phoned Mr. Macbeth because in these miserable days of police brutality, I knew he would be kind and I knew he would listen.”

  “You’re that environment wumman,” snarled Blair. “Well, I’m not going to waste time on a tree hugger. Piss off!”

  He stomped off, watched by a busload of tourists on the bridge. Detective Jimmy Anderson threw Hamish a sympathetic look before following his boss.

  After he had gone, Hamish made his way down to the willow tree, calling over his shoulder, “Come along, Dick.”

  “Right, boss,” said Dick. “We’ll get this perp.”

  Watching Law & Order again, thought Hamish gloomily. He sat down on a flat rock, took off his boots and socks, and rolled up his trousers. The water at the side of the pool under the willow tree where the dead bird hung was shallow and cold. He took out a knife and cut the bird down, then scrutinised the knot on the branch. His long sensitive fingers probed the bird’s neck. How had the darting kingfisher been caught in the first place? Did it have a mate or chicks? Was it a male bird? Where was the nest? Even in death, the colours of the bird were beautiful: cobalt blue and orange chestnut and red-sealing-wax-coloured legs.

  There was a great splash from behind him. Dick had slipped into the water.

  Hamish turned his head and snapped, “Get back up the brae and dry yourself.”

  “Can I help?” asked a quiet voice from behind him. “I’m an ornithologist. Frank Shepherd. You may have read my book on the birds of Sutherland.”

  “Yes, I’d be right glad of it. Is this bird the male?” He handed Frank the bird’s body.

  “The male and female are very alike,” said Frank. “But I am sure it’s the male. I would like to take the dead bird away with me for a closer look. I would guess that it may have been poisoned first.”

  “Can you find the nest?” asked Hamish.

  “If you let me past, I’ll do my best.”

  Hamish gratefully climbed back up the brae, wondering as he went which rock the boy had fallen from. The ones nearer the bridge sloped down into deep water, so it was probably from there that he had been pushed in. He frowned. Why had no one sent in a report to the police?

  Dick was slumped in the Land Rover with the heater blasting. Hamish dried his feet with some paper towels he kept in the back and put his boots and socks on.

  He went round and opened the passenger door. “Drive yourself back to the station,” he said, “and change your clothes. Then get back to Mrs. Colchester’s place and pick me up.”

  Dick set off. Hamish waited until Frank climbed back up holding the bird. “I found the nest,” said Frank. “Dead female and dead chicks.” He pulled a plastic bag out of his pocket. “I found these bits of fish. I’m going to take them to a pharmacist friend and have them analysed. I think the fish might have been poisoned.” />
  “Give me your card,” said Hamish, “and I will keep in touch with you.”

  “What’s happening?” asked Mary.

  Hamish introduced Frank, and then blinked. He had an odd feeling of being drowned in Mary’s wide blue eyes. He pulled himself together and explained about the suspected poisoning.

  “You’ve made a great success of this glen, Mary,” said Hamish. “Do you think this was just a nasty prank, or do you think someone was out to destroy your tourist business? The kingfisher seemed to have been a great attraction.”

  “I would ask Charles Palfour,” said Mary. “He’s a horrible boy.”

  “I’m going to see Mrs. Colchester now,” said Hamish. “When Charles was pushed in, why was it never reported?”

  “But Mrs. Colchester said it was!”

  “I’ll get back to you,” said Hamish.

  “I’m relying on you,” said Mary. She put a little hand on his arm, and he smiled down at her.

  Hamish said goodbye to Frank and Mary and set out to walk to the hunting lodge. He reflected that he needed new boots. His feet were hurting by the time he got there.

  This time a woman in a flowered overall whom he recognised as Bertha Dunglass opened the door.

  “Is Mrs. Colchester home?” he asked. “And I’d like to see the boy as well.”

  “She disnae like to be bothered,” said Bertha. “Oh, well, I suppose as you’re the polis, I’d best let ye in. Herself is out on the terrace at the back. I’ll take you through.”

  A stone-flagged terrace stretched along the back of the house, decorated at the front with a balustrade. On the terrace, seated at a table, was Mrs. Colchester. The children were playing an improvised game of cricket down on the lawn.

  “What do you want?” demanded the old woman, scowling up at him.

  Hamish sat down next to her. He could see his action infuriated her but he wanted to rest his feet. “It’s about the time the boy was pushed into the water. Why didn’t you report it to the police?”

  “I did. I phoned Strathbane. Did they send anyone? No. All I got was a visit from the man who rescued him, no doubt looking for an award.”

  “Can you remember his name?”

  “Some doctor from Lairg, that’s all I can remember.”

  “Do you know that someone has hanged the kingfisher from a branch and poisoned the rest of them?”

  She put a trembling hand to her chest. “No,” she whispered. “Get out of here.”

  “But I want a word with the boy.”

  “Speak to him and then get out!”

  Hamish rose and made his way down the lawn. The two children watched his approach with their peculiarly dead eyes.

  “Charles,” said Hamish, “when you were pushed in, did you see who did it?”

  “No,” he said. “I was playing on the rocks under the bridge when I got this almighty shove in the back. I screamed my head off. Some man dived in and pulled me out. I kept telling him and everyone else I was shoved, but no one would listen to me.”

  “There’s another thing. The kingfisher and family have been murdered,” said Hamish.

  Both children stared at him and then began to laugh. “What’s so damn funny?” demanded Hamish.

  Olivia recovered first. “You police do see crime in the Highlands,” she said. “I am here to investigate the case of the dead bird. What a hoot!”

  “I hope someone pushes you both in the pool next time,” said Hamish, “and makes a good job of it.”

  Their cackles of laughter followed him into the house. Mrs. Colchester had disappeared. Bertha showed him out. “She seems to have had a funny turn,” said Bertha. “She’s off to her bed.”

  Hamish sat on the step outside and tried to remember the name of the doctor in Lairg. He phoned Dr. Brodie in Lochdubh and asked him. “That would be Dr. Askew,” said Dr. Brodie. “Nice fellow.”

  “Give me his number.”

  “A moment. Right. Got a pen?”

  “Yes.” Dr. Brodie gave him the number.

  Hamish phoned and waited until Dr. Askew came on the line, then asked him about the rescue. “I went over to see this famous glen on my day off,” said Askew. “It would have been cheaper if I had taken the tour bus because they do charge motorists a lot. I wasn’t on the bridge. I was sitting down by the side of it, wishing all the tourists would go away so that I could enjoy the peace of the place. I looked up and saw them starting to move. Then I heard this splash and scream and saw the boy struggling in the water. I dived in and got him out. He was all right. To tell the truth, I think the child just slipped. I couldn’t see anyone around, but then I wasn’t looking.”

  “Have you any idea how anyone could have got close enough, unseen?”

  “Not a clue. Everyone was looking the one way to see if they could see the kingfisher, so I suppose someone on the other side with a pole or something could have shoved the little horror in. What a family. Granny Colchester called the police but no one showed up to interview me.”

  Hamish thanked him and rang off just as the police Land Rover with Dick at the wheel rolled up the drive. Dick was steering with one hand and eating a large sandwich with the other.

  He slid down the window and spoke. It sounded like, “ErrottagaeStrathbane.”

  “Chew and swallow,” said Hamish testily. “What are you trying to say?”

  Dick swallowed a mouthful of sandwich and then said, “We’ve got to gae to Strathbane. The big yin wants tae see you.”

  The “big yin” was Superintendent Peter Daviot.

  What now? wondered Hamish as the superintendent’s sour-faced secretary, Helen, ushered them into his office.

  “Ah, come in,” said Daviot, smoothing the well-barbered wings of his silver hair. “This is a bad business. Strathbane Television asked me for a comment on the death of the kingfisher. I said we had more important things to do. They sent me round this DVD. Watch!”

  He slotted it into a machine. It started with a presenter explaining about the death of the kingfisher and then focussed on Blair giving Hamish a dressing-down. Move to picture of beautiful Mary Leinster with tears running down her face and Blair calling her a tree hugger. After Blair had left, Mary Leinster made a speech, saying it was not Sergeant Macbeth’s fault. She was so shocked she had reported the death as a murder. But, she went on, something beautiful had been killed, not only the kingfisher but “his wife and the wee bairns.” Then she began to cry again.

  Comments from the angry crowd followed calling Blair every kind of unsympathetic villain who had no respect for the public.

  When it ended, Daviot looked grim. “This is a public relations disaster, Macbeth. I want you to concentrate all your energies on finding out who did this.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hamish, a picture of Mary in tears impressed on his mind’s eye. “An ornithologist, Frank Shepherd, has taken away the bird and some pieces of fish. He thinks the birds were poisoned.”

  “Tell him he may avail himself of the services of our forensic lab. Now off with you.”

  “If I might have a word, sir,” said Dick while Hamish looked at his constable in surprise.

  “Go ahead, Fraser. What is it?”

  “Would your good self have any objection to me appearing on a game show on the telly? It’s a quiz show, Get It Right.”

  Daviot smiled indulgently as he looked at Dick. Perhaps if he had been as slow moving and stupid as Dick Fraser, he might not have risen to the dizzy height of his job. “I don’t see it will do any harm. In your own time, mind!”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Think Blair’s been suspended?” asked Dick as they settled back into the Land Rover.

  “No,” said Hamish. “That one could creep his way out of any situation.”

  “Think it was those horrible kids?”

  “Too planned for my liking. That bird was hanged there to cause the most distress. What’s all this about a quiz?”

  “I didnae tell ye because I thought ye might laugh a
t me,” said Dick. “It’s the morrow night. The prize is a dishwasher. Just think. No more washing up.”

  “You hardly wash a cup unless I shout at you,” said Hamish. “Oh, go ahead. Make a fool of yourself if you want.”

  That evening, Ralph and Fern Palfour arrived at the hunting box. Fern’s mother was angry with her daughter. She said she did not want her peace disturbed and wished she had never invited the horrors that were her grandchildren. On the other hand, Fern had been born just before Mrs. Colchester’s menopause. She had been surprised to find that she was pregnant at the age of forty-four. But her late husband had doted on their daughter as Mr. Colchester had doted on her husband. It was only after his death that she began to find her daughter—with her politically correct ideas, her wimp of a husband, and her nasty children—unwelcome visitors. She knew that her son-in-law was in financial difficulties and took some bitter amusement from the compliments he heaped on her grey head.

  She told them they could stay a week, but that was all. Mrs. Colchester had another reason for wanting them out of the house. She had fallen in love with the Fairy Glen. She liked to get out of the house at night in her motorised wheelchair and go down to the wood and sit there, drinking in the peace and silence.

  Mrs. Colchester was from a remote island in the Hebrides and had a strong superstitious streak. She also believed in fairies. She thought the glen was really enchanted and resented the daily busloads of visitors. At least when the Scottish winter settled in, she thought, she would be able to have the place to herself during the day was well.

  The following evening, most of the police and detectives who were not on duty switched on their television sets to watch that joke of a copper, Dick Fraser, make a fool of himself.