Death of a Kingfisher

by M C Beaton

  Rory was searching for a nest when Callum suddenly let out a shriek. “There’s a fairy under the water!”

  Callum came to stand by him and together they looked down into the moonlit pool.

  “That’s no fairy,” said Callum beginning to shake. “That’s that wumman, Mary Leinster.”

  “Come away,” said Rory, “let’s run for it.”

  But when they arrived home it was to find their father waiting by the garden gate, his arms folded.

  “Where hae you two been?” he demanded.

  Rory began to cry. Callum fell to his knees and holding himself with his arms, started to shake.

  “Here now, lads,” said Mr. Macgregor, “I’m no’ a monster. Get to your beds.”

  “She’s dead. Drowned,” wailed Callum.

  “Who? What?”

  So Callum told him.

  Hamish was awakened by the shrill ringing of the telephone. Even before he answered it, he experienced a feeling of dread.

  He listened with a sinking heart to Mr. Macgregor’s agitated voice, and then said grimly, “I’ll be right over.”

  “What do you think happened?” Dick asked as they raced along the moonlit roads.

  “I think Mary wanted money. Now that the valuables have been recovered and she would find it difficult to milk the trust, she wanted money somehow. She must have known something and thought she would try a bit of blackmail. I’ll be interested to hear what the Palfours were doing when all this was going on.”

  They arrived at the pool to find Mary’s body being lifted from the water, her hair dank and wet in the moonlight, her face like clay.

  Jimmy saw Hamish and came hurrying up. “Go and talk to the lads who found the body and take Annie Williams with you.”

  “Where are the Palfours?”

  “On the road back. They were staying at a hotel in Inverness, left the number with the cleaner. Stopped at a garage this morning for petrol. Got them on CCTV.”

  “So, again, they’ve got an alibi. Where are their children?”

  “They’re now boarding at their school during the week. I want you and Annie Williams here to go and speak to the boys. Annie! Come here. I want you to go with Macbeth. Dick, you stay and do some plod work. Search the area and see if you can find anything.”

  When Annie and Hamish reached the boys’ home, it was to be told that they had been given sedatives by the doctor and were asleep in bed.

  “Now what?” asked Annie as they got back into the Land Rover.

  Hamish phoned Jimmy. “I don’t need you here cluttering up the landscape,” he said, “or rather, I’m quoting Blair. Annie can go home but you can come here first and pick up Dick. Mary Leinster was hit on the head with something and then shoved in the pool.”

  “I’m hungry,” complained Annie as they set off for the glen again.

  “Have you got a car?”

  “I left mine and came over with the other police.”

  “Tell you what,” said Hamish, “I’ll drive us all back to Lochdubh and make sandwiches or something and then I’ll run you home.”

  At the police station, Dick said he wanted to go straight to bed. Hamish made a pot of tea and some ham sandwiches.

  “That was grand,” said Annie. “Can you give me a bed for a few hours? We’ll both have to see those boys later on.”

  “I’ll take the bed in the cell and give you mine.”

  She gave him an impish grin. “Why don’t we both share your bed?”

  “Annie!”

  She stood up and bent over him and gave him a passionate kiss on the mouth.

  “Feeling better about the idea?” she asked.

  “Oh, yes,” said Hamish Macbeth hoarsely.

  Hamish awoke late in the morning, feeling lazy and contented. He turned to gather Annie to him but found the other side of the bed empty. He got up and put on a dressing gown. Annie was in the kitchen, making coffee. She looked clean and fresh and was wearing her uniform. “We’d better get a move on,” she said. “It’s eleven o’clock already.”

  Hamish showered and dressed. He rumpled up the bed in the cell in the hope that Dick would think he had slept there.

  Sleepy Dick was in the kitchen, grumbling that he had to have food and that a cup of coffee wasn’t enough.

  They piled into the Land Rover, Dick still grumbling at having to share the back with Sonsie and Lugs. Hamish could only be glad that they had not created a fuss when he had shut them out of the bedroom.

  He whistled happily as he drove over the heathery hills to Braikie. They had almost reached the boys’ home when Annie’s mobile rang. She answered it and Hamish heard her say, “Grand! See you tonight.”

  Her voice had been warm and affectionate. Hamish pulled up outside the boys’ home and asked, “Who was that?”

  “Oh, that was my husband,” said Annie cheerfully. “He works on the oil rigs but he’ll be home tonight.”

  “Dick,” said Hamish stiffly, “would you mind getting out and letting me have a word in private?”

  “Aye, sure,” said Dick sadly.

  Hamish turned to Annie. “Why didn’t you tell me you were married?”

  “Last night it didn’t seem important,” said Annie.

  “So it wass chust a fling?”

  “Don’t look at me like that,” said Annie hotly. “You enjoyed yourself, didn’t you?”

  “Women!” said Hamish savagely and banged his fist on the steering wheel.

  Annie shrugged and got out.

  After a few minutes, Hamish followed her.

  The boys had little to tell them that was any help at all. They had simply run away after finding the body.

  “Now what?” asked Annie. “The Palfours?”

  “It’s Saturday,” said Hamish. “Maybe you could have a word with the Palfour children, Annie. I’ll drop you and Dick off. I’d like to get back to the station and go through all the alibis again. I’ll pick you up later, Dick.”

  Hamish was studying his notes the next day when his phone rang. It was Annie. Hamish was still angry with her but he realised quickly that going on like the rejected lover was a waste of valuable time.

  “I don’t think this means anything,” said Annie. “I was talking to Charles and Olivia in the garden. It was a bit creepy the way they seemed to be relishing this latest murder. Anyway, Fern Palfour came running down the garden, screaming that I had no right to speak to her children without an adult present. Charles grinned and said, ‘Mummy’s taken up dressmaking.’ Fern turns the colour of mud and slaps him across the face. Then she burst into tears and hugs him and apologises and then tells me to get the hell out of it. I don’t think there’s anything in it. What could be so awful about dressmaking?”

  Hamish thanked her and rang off. He turned over what she had said in his mind but could not make any sense of it.

  His phone rang again. “Hullo, boss,” said a deep voice.

  “Who is speaking?” demanded Hamish.

  “Ginger Stuart. Listen, I’ve got something might interest you.”

  “Where are you?” asked Hamish sharply.

  “At home.”

  “Stay there. Don’t move. Don’t open the door to anyone but me. Got it?”

  “Sure, boss,” said Ginger in a fake American accent.

  Hamish rushed out to the Land Rover. The cat and dog scampered after him.

  “No!” said Hamish. “Amuse yourselves for once!”

  He raced off in the direction of Braikie.

  Ginger opened the door to him. Even his tattoos seemed to be rippling with excitement.

  Hamish followed him into a malodorous living room. The windows were open but he could smell pot.

  “What have you got for me?” he asked.

  “There was a broadcast this morning offering ten thousand pounds for any information leading to the murderers,” said Ginger.

  “Aye, and I’ll see you get it if…”

  “If I come up with the goods,” said Ginger. �
�Here’s what I picked up. I was in a bar on the road to Dingwall.”

  “Which one?”

  “Marty’s Mojo.”

  “Thieves’ kitchen,” commented Hamish, guessing that Ginger had probably gone there to buy drugs.

  “Well, ye ken they have thae old-fashioned booths. There were these two blokes in the one the back o’ me. I think they were a wee bittie stoned because they were giggling. But then one says to the ither, ‘Maybe we should get out o’ the country. I got friends in Spain.’

  “The ither says, ‘Spain’s got an extradition treaty.’

  “‘I hates foreigners,’ says the ither. ‘They’ll never get back to us, Willy. We’re safe as houses. We’ll keep on lying low, don’t spend the money until it’s safe and then we can splash out a bit.’

  “Then I heard one of them say, ‘Thon was a rare rocket.’ And his pal says, ‘For Christ’s sake, shut up.’ What d’ye think o’ that?”

  Hamish’s heart beat hard. “Who are these men?”

  “I took a peek afore I left. Thin couple o’ men wi’ baseball caps pulled down over their eyes. I waited and waited and then I followed them home. It took me every effort to keep up. They was on a motorbike.”

  “Where did they go?”

  “Here’s the address,” said Ginger triumphantly. “Twenty-four Southey’s Lane, Dingwall.”

  “Thanks, I’ll get on to it,” said Hamish. “And yes, if this pans out, you’ll get the award. By the way, cut out the pot smoking.”

  Outside, Hamish wondered whether to phone Jimmy and then decided against it. He would feel obliged to tell Blair, and Hamish didn’t want the whole circus to descend on Dingwall and alert the two men. He called at the police station first and changed into civilian clothes. Then he hired an old Ford from the garage and set off.

  The weather was crisp and clear. All thoughts of his night with Annie were lost in a sudden flood of hope and excitement.

  Dingwall, perhaps the cleanest town in the Highlands, is blessed with many car parks. The town lies at the head of the Cromarty Firth. The name, Dingwall, means “parliament field” in Old Norse, showing the town was an important centre as far back as the arrival of the Vikings in AD 800.

  Hamish walked down to the main street, went into the tourist office, and got a map of the town. Southey’s Lane lay on the outskirts. He returned to the car park and drove off. Somehow he had expected to find a council estate, but Southey’s Lane turned out to be a shabby row of cottages, bordering on ploughed fields.

  He parked at the end of the row. Number 24 was in the middle.

  Now what do I do? he wondered. If he confronted them, all they had to do was deny everything and then escape. He decided to wait and see if they came out. He fished out his camera and focused it.

  An hour passed while he fretted. Then suddenly two men emerged. He shot off a photo. They got on a motorcycle and roared off. Hamish set off after them, cursing the old Ford’s lack of speed. He could only hope they were going to Marty’s Mojo as they disappeared in the distance.

  Hamish heaved a sigh of relief when he saw the motorbike in the bar’s car park. He phoned Jimmy and explained the situation. “Don’t bring the whole lot,” urged Hamish. “Just enough plainclothes to help me arrest them. Do you have to tell Blair?”

  “No, he must have had a right bevy last night. The man was fair blootered. You’ve never seen a hangover like it. I’ll get Dingwall police to back you up. Keep an eye on them and don’t lose them. You should have told me immediately you had the news. I’ll be over as fast as I can.”

  Hamish kept his eye on the entrance, worrying and fretting. Eventually a car drove into the car park, and four men in plainclothes got out and approached Hamish. One flashed a warrant card and said, “Dingwall police.”

  “There are two men inside I want to arrest on suspicion of murder,” said Hamish. “Take them back to the station. I’ll show you who they are then I’ll follow you and we’ll wait for the contingent from Strathbane.”

  The two men, Terence Rattrey and Philip Windon, were driven from Dingwall police station to Strathbane. To Hamish’s relief, Jimmy said he could sit in on the interviews the next morning.

  They were an unsavoury-looking pair. Rattrey suited his name, being a rat-like man with beady eyes and a wispy brown moustache. Windon was pasty-faced, pimply, and sullen.

  Despite long hours of questioning, all they could get out of the pair was “No comment” and a demand to see their lawyer.

  At last, Daviot drew Jimmy and Hamish outside the interviewing room. “What do you think? I’ve a mind to let them have their lawyer. He might be able to talk some sense into them. We’re digging up their backgrounds anyway. Hear this. Before they got into drugs, they were both in the Royal Engineers. They could have learned the knowledge to make that rocket and soup up the chair’s engine in the forces.”

  “Who is this lawyer?” asked Hamish.

  “William Lemont. Small time. Dingwall. Doesn’t seem to have handled any criminal cases at all. He wasn’t present when this pair were charged a few years ago with pushing drugs. They got out of jail last year.”

  “It’s up to you,” said Hamish, “but I feel uneasy about it, I don’t know why.”

  “I’m going to phone him,” said Daviot.

  He went to his office and came back after ten minutes. “Lemont’s on his way. Now all we can do is wait. Oh, Miss Williams, what is it?”

  “The press have got wind of something and are massed outside, sir, and there’s a minister from Dingwall wants to have a word with the men.”

  “What’s his name?” asked Jimmy.

  “Mr. Sutherland from the Church of St. Andrew.”

  “May as well let him see them. Maybe he can soften them up.”

  Hamish felt a qualm of unease. “I don’t think anyone other than us should see them, sir.”

  “You’ve done enough here, Macbeth,” said Daviot. “Get back to your station. We’ll keep you informed.” Daviot missed Blair, who was still off sick. Blair never contradicted or queried any of his ideas.

  On the road back to Lochdubh, Hamish noticed that the tops of the mountains had their first covering of snow. He felt in his bones it was going to be a hard winter.

  When he got back to the police station it was to find Matthew Campbell, editor of the Highland Times, waiting for him. “I thought I might get more out of you than I’d get out of Strathbane,” he said. “What’s happening?”

  “I can only tell you that two men from Dingwall have been arrested on suspicion of murder,” said Hamish. “You know I can’t give you any more than that.”

  “Any little tidbit will do.”

  “Well, they’re saying nothing until their lawyer arrives. A minister is visiting them.”

  “Which minister?”

  “A Mr. Sutherland from St. Andrew’s in Dingwall.”

  “That’s odd,” said Matthew.

  “Why?”

  “Sutherland is very old and creaky. Furthermore, he’s an old intellectual. Hardly the type to want to console a couple of men suspected of murder. Besides, he’s also not the sort to stir himself to arrive so quickly on the scene.”

  Hamish gave him an alarmed look. He darted into the office, ignoring Lugs who was banging his feed bowl on the floor, and seized the Highlands and Islands telephone directory. He phoned the reverend’s number.

  An old querulous voice answered the phone. “Mr. Sutherland,” said Hamish, “we have had a report that you wish to see two prisoners accused of murder at Strathbane police headquarters.”

  “Now why would I do that? Who is speaking?”

  “Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”

  “With my arthritis, it is as much as I can do to get up into the pulpit on Sundays. Hullo!”

  For Hamish had rung off.

  He phoned Jimmy and howled, “Thon minister’s a fake. Don’t let him see the prisoners!”

  “What’s up, Hamish? The man’s been and gone.”

  “A
nd how are the prisoners?”

  “Left them to sweat.”

  “That minister was an impostor. See that the prisoners are all right.”

  Jimmy seemed to be gone a long time. Hamish clutched the phone, hearing agitated voices shouting and yelling.

  At last Jimmy came on telephone again, his voice hoarse with shock.

  “They’re dead, Hamish. Stone dead.”

  Chapter Nine

  My barmie noddle’s working prime.

  —Robert Burns

  Hamish returned to Strathbane in the morning. With the men dead, all hope of breaking the case had gone. Someone must have paid them to rig the stair lift, and that someone masqueraded as a minister to make sure they did not talk.

  Hamish went straight to the detectives’ room. “Anything on CCTV?” he asked Jimmy.

  “You’re never going to believe this,” said Jimmy with a groan. “Look!”

  Hamish leaned over him and studied the CCTV tape. The camera outside police headquarters swung from left to right. Whoever the murderer was, he had timed his entrance exactly for when the camera had swung away from the front door.

  “And the CCTV that covers the car park?”

  “Sprayed with black paint. He thought o’ everything.”

  “What about the CCTV tapes from the surrounding streets?” asked Hamish.

  “I’m just waiting for them to be collected.”

  “What are you doing here, Macbeth?” asked Blair, stomping up to them.

  “Just making sure no evidence goes missing…again,” said Hamish.

  Blair backed off, muttering, “Aye, well, don’t spend all day here.”

  “Where are the Palfours?” asked Hamish.

  “The cleaners say they’ve gone back to Inverness for the day. We’ve sent someone to the auction rooms. I’ve heard they’re selling off some of the old furniture. Inverness police are looking for them.”