Death of a Hussy (3 page)

‘Yes,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘It seems you made a bad mistake in suggesting that Hamish be taken away from Lochdubh. There’s been nothing but crime for the past few days.’

‘I know,’ said Blair heavily. ‘I’ve been there on a drugs report. Baking soda, it turned oot tae be.’ His Glasgow accent grew stronger in his irritation. ‘Dae ye know what I think? I think them damp villagers are making up crimes so as tae get this pillock back.’

The superintendent’s face froze. ‘Mind your language in front of me, Mr Blair,’ he said. ‘Are you questioning the word of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, for example?’

‘No, no,’ said Blair hurriedly. ‘But it did look a bit suspicious, ye ken, considering nothing happens there from the one year’s end tae the other.’

‘Except murder,’ put in Hamish.

‘Do not forget Hamish solved that woman’s murder,’ said the superintendent. ‘I am just telling him he must go back and take up his duties there.’

‘Uh-uh!’ said Blair, his face creased into an unlovely smile. ‘Why I came up, Mr Daviot, is to tell you we might be discussing Macbeth’s dismissal from the force.’

‘What! Why?’

‘He assaulted PC Graham.’

‘You assaulted a policewoman, Hamish?’

‘It was self-defence, sir.’

‘Haw! Haw! Haw!’ roared Blair.

‘Will you stop cackling, Blair, and give me an outline of the complaint?’

‘PC Graham has just come into the station. She said she was patrolling the beat when Macbeth here suddenly picked her up and threw her in a rubbish bin.’

‘Is this true, Macbeth?’ No more ‘Hamish.’

‘She said she could beat me up and approached me in a threatening manner,’ said Hamish. ‘I was fed up wi’ her. I chust picked up the lassie and dumped her in wi’ the rubbish.’

‘I can hardly … this is very serious … very serious indeed. Oh, what is it, Sergeant?’

The desk sergeant had just entered. ‘It’s three women and a man frae the tower blocks,’ he said. ‘They say they’ve come to defend Macbeth here. They say they saw Graham attacking him and Macbeth being forced to defend himself. They say when they helped Graham out of the bin, she said she was going to get Macbeth charged with assault and they say if that’s the case they will all go to court as witnesses for Macbeth’s defence.’

‘We must not let this get into the newspapers,’ said the superintendent, horrified. ‘Get rid of these people, Sergeant, and say that Macbeth is not being charged. Shut Graham up at all costs. Good heavens, just think what the tabloids could make of this. Macbeth, I suggest you go back to your quarters and pack and leave for Lochdubh in the morning. Blair, I am surprised at you! In a situation as potentially explosive and damaging to the police as this you should get your facts right. Macbeth, wipe that smile off your face and get going!’

At a new roundabout on the outskirts of Strath-bane stood Hamish Macbeth, a suitcase in one hand. In the other, he held a rope as a leash for Towser, whose own had mysteriously disappeared in the kennels. Towser, a yellowish mongrel, was subdued. He had been kennelled with police dogs, large nasty-looking German shepherds, and had lived for a short time in a state of terror.

There was no reason for Hamish to be standing in a fine drizzle trying to hitch a lift. A police car would have driven him to Lochdubh in the afternoon, but Hamish felt he could not wait that long.

One car after another slowed at the roundabout and then drove past the solitary figure with the battered suitcase and dog. Many people firmly believed you had to have a death wish to give a lift to a stranger these days.

Hamish looked around. There was a thick stand of bushes behind him. He walked into their shelter, opened his case, took out his policeman’s tunic, and after tugging off his old sweater, put it on. He was already wearing his regulation trousers. He also fished out his peaked hat and knocked it back into shape and put it on his head.

‘I told you, you shouldn’t be driving without a licence,’ said Mrs Mary Webb to her husband, Bert, as the tall, thin figure of a policeman stepped out into the road just before the roundabout and held up his hand. Bert Webb slowed to a halt, his heart hammering. ‘Whatever happens, keep your mouth shut,’ he hissed to his wife.

He rolled down the window. ‘Good day, Officer,’ he said with an ingratiating leer. ‘What can we do for you?’

‘I was wondering if you were travelling anywhere near the village of Lochdubh,’ said Hamish.

‘We are going farther north,’ said Bert uneasily. ‘The nearest we get to Lochdubh is the Ardest crossroads.’

‘That would do me just fine,’ said Hamish. ‘I can walk from there easily.’

A look of relief wiped the worry from Bert’s face. ‘You mean you want a lift?’

‘If you would be so kind.’

Relief made Bert hearty. ‘Jump in the back,’ he said.

‘Thank you very much,’ said Hamish with a sweet smile. ‘I will just be getting my dog.’ And he disappeared back into the bushes beside the road where he had left Towser.

‘Dog!’ exclaimed Mary Webb. ‘And us with our new seat covers.’ She twisted her head and looked at the back seat which was covered in imitation fur fabric of a leopard skin pattern.

‘Shut up!’ snapped Bert, uneasy again. ‘It may be some sort of trick.’

His wife looked at him in alarm but had no time to say anything, for the back door of the car opened and PC Macbeth and a wet Towser climbed inside, Hamish pulling his suitcase in after him.

Hamish tried to make conversation but found it very hard going. Mary Webb was thinking furiously, Perhaps it isn’t Bert’s licence, perhaps it’s those library books I never took back. Then there was that restaurant. They forgot to charge Bert for the drinks and he never said a word …

Bert was thinking of the young girl with whom he had enjoyed a brief fling down in Worcester three months ago. He was a shop fitter and travelled around the country. The girl had looked awfully young. What if she was under sixteen?

Hamish finally fell silent. His thoughts turned to Lochdubh. He was still saddened by the way in which all his friends had taken his banishment without any fuss. He had phoned the hotel the night before and had told Mr Johnson, the manager, of his imminent return and Johnson had taken it calmly, almost coolly, in fact.

‘Here we are, Officer!’ said Bert with forced joviality. ‘The Ardest turning.’

Hamish thanked them and climbed out with suitcase and dog. He touched his cap as the Webbs drove off, the Webbs who were now full of indignant rage at having been forced to give a lift to what had turned out to be nothing more sinister than a scrounging copper.

Towser turned slowly in the direction of Lochdubh, rather like an overstuffed armchair turning around on its castors. He sniffed the air and slowly his tail curved over his back.

A shaft of sunlight struck through the grey clouds, a William Blake shaft of sunlight. All it lacked were the angels. The wind was from the west holding an underlying touch of warmth. Above the shaggy heath of Sutherland soared the mountains, rising up to heaven, away and beyond the antlike machinations of the police force.

Hamish took the rope from around Towser’s neck and the dog surged forward down the road to Lochdubh, stopping every now and then to look back and make sure his master was following.

Hoisting his suitcase up on to his shoulder, Hamish stepped out smartly and the sky above grew brighter and brighter and the wind in the heather sang a welcome home.

* * *

‘Thank goodness the sun is shining,’ said Priscilla. ‘Are you sure he said he would be here sometime this morning, Mr Johnson?’

‘That’s what he said,’ remarked the hotel manager. ‘Said he couldn’t wait and he would hitch a lift.’

‘Maybe he can’t get a lift,’ worried Priscilla. ‘One of us should have gone and collected him.’

‘And spoil the surprise? No, better this way. Dougie, the gamekeeper, is posted up on the hill and he’ll wave a flag when he sees him coming.’

Priscilla shook her head doubtfully, having visions of lazy Hamish stretched out asleep in the back seat of some limousine and unable to be spotted by even such an eagle eye as Dougie’s. ‘Everything’s ready anyway,’ she said looking around.

In the centre of the village stood a raised platform that was normally used for school prize-giving day. Already seated on it, furtively sipping something out of a silver flask, was Maggie Baird with the shadow that was Alison beside her. Mrs Wellington sat on Maggie’s other side with her husband, the minister, and beside them were Priscilla’s mother and father.

Over the street hung a banner saying, ‘Welcome Home, Hamish,’ and the school choir was lined up in front of the platform, ready to burst into song. Beside them stood the small band – one accordionist, one fiddle player, and the schoolteacher, Miss Monson, seated at the battered upright piano which was usually housed in the school hall.

Jessie and Nessie Currie, the village spinsters, were ready with
their
music, ‘My Heart and I.’ They had never been known to sing anything else.

And then from the hill above the village, Dougie frantically waved his huge St Andrew’s flag in the air. Maggie Baird walked to the front of the platform, stood before the microphone, and took a speech out of her capacious handbag while Mrs Wellington obviously bristled with outrage.

The band struck up ‘Westering Home’ and the little schoolchildren sang the words in their clear Highland voices. Ragged cheering broke out from the far end of the village.

Alison craned her head forwards and looked along the village street.

Her first sight of Hamish Macbeth sent all her rosy fantasies crashing into ruins. He was tall and thin and gangling with fiery red hair showing under his peaked cap. He looked half delighted and half embarrassed, and as he drew near the platform he actually blushed.

Hamish was trying very hard not to cry. He was making all sorts of grateful promises. No more laziness. No more lolling about. He would, in future, be hardworking and never, ever would he give the powers that be any excuse to send him away again.

He looked up at the platform and his eyes sharpened. The band and the choir had fallen silent. A large woman, a stranger to him, was giving him a speech of welcome. He studied her curiously, his eyes taking in the too-new tweeds, the heavy face, and the autocratic manner. He was forcibly reminded of a competent actress playing the part of a gentlewoman.

There was something about her that disturbed him and as she came to the end of her speech, she drooped one eyelid at him in a definite wink. In that moment, he had an odd feeling that inside that fat tweed-covered body was a slim beauty who had put on some sort of middle-aged disguise for a joke.

And then he realized he was being asked to make a speech.

He climbed up on to the platform, his eyes resting briefly on Alison Kerr and then turning to Priscilla, who had joined her parents. His face lit up and he gave Priscilla a singularly sweet smile.

He’s not bad, thought Alison, not bad at all. He had, she noticed for the first time, hazel eyes fringed with thick lashes.

‘Thank you all,’ said Hamish shyly. ‘You haff made me most welcome. I don’t know quite what to say. Och, just thank you all from the bottom o’ my heart.’

Miss Monson began to play and Nessie and Jessie burst into their well-known rendering of ‘My Heart And I.’ When they had finished, Priscilla jumped to her feet. ‘Three cheers for Hamish,’ she shouted. And Hamish blushed as the cheers rang out and felt that awful lump in his throat. He wanted to get away and be by himself, but there was a welcome buffet luncheon laid out in the Lochdubh Hotel and more speeches, and so he forced himself to talk to everyone and try not to feel he did not deserve any of it.

Priscilla came up to him and kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Stick it out a bit longer, Hamish,’ she whispered. ‘It’ll soon be over and then you can go home.’ Hamish looked at her with quick gratitude and then found he was beginning to enjoy himself.

‘Well, copper,’ said a throaty voice, ‘aren’t you going to thank me?’

He looked down at Maggie Baird. He gave her a puzzled look and then his eyes began to dance with mischief. ‘Are you then the leader of the Lochdubh Mafia?’ he asked. ‘All thae crimes had poor Sergeant MacGregor not knowing whether he was coming or going.’

Maggie gave a jolly laugh. ‘Someone had to think of something,’ she said. ‘You were very much missed and now I have met you, I can understand why.’

‘You are Mrs Baird,’ said Hamish. ‘You arrived after I left for Strathbane.’

‘Yes.’ Maggie became aware that Alison was tugging furtively at her sleeve, obviously hoping for an introduction, and she swung her great bulk a little way around so that Alison was shielded from Hamish. ‘I don’t know if I’ll stay long,’ went on Maggie airily, ‘but this little place amuses me for the moment.’

‘If you like peace and quiet, it’ll grow on you,’ said Hamish amiably. ‘I do not think I haff been introduced to this young lady.’ He looked over Maggie’s shoulder at Alison.

‘Oh, this is my niece, Alison Kerr. She’s just recovered from cancer which is why she looks a bit ratty.’

Alison winced and Hamish said quickly, ‘You look chust fine to me, Miss Kerr. You must still be feeling awfy frightened. I mean, you must keep worrying that it might come back.’

‘Yes,’ said Alison gratefully. ‘It’s made me an awful coward, the fear, I mean. I’m frightened of my own shadow.’

‘Well, I suppose that’s as good an excuse as any,’ said Maggie nastily.

‘One o’ my cousins had an operation for cancer,’ Hamish went on as if Maggie hadn’t spoken. ‘He’s fine now. The fear goes away after a bit. It’s a bit like getting over the death of someone you loved.’

Maggie gave a musical laugh and her blue eyes looked flirtatiously up into Hamish’s own. ‘Is this evening going to turn into a therapy session, or are you going to pay some attention to your saviour?’

‘Oh, aye,’ said Hamish with a grin. ‘I’m grateful to you, Mrs Baird.’

Maggie put her hand on his arm. ‘And how are you going to show that gratitude, Officer?’

He was suddenly aware of her overpowering sexuality, of the expensive French perfume she wore, of being enclosed between walls of suffocating intimacy, and instinctively drew back. He thought, This is what a woman must feel like when a man is undressing her with his eyes.

He hailed the arrival of Mrs Todd, Maggie’s housekeeper, with relief. ‘Good evening, Mrs Todd,’ he said. ‘It’s a while since I’ve seen you.’

Mrs Todd was a small, sturdy woman dressed, despite the cold evening, in a black silk gown embroidered with jet that looked like an Edwardian relic. She ignored Hamish and Maggie and said to Alison, ‘Are you all right, Miss Kerr? I hope the festivities aren’t too much for you.’

Mrs Todd’s normally hard features were softened by a maternal smile. ‘Thank you,’ said Alison in a little girl voice. ‘I’m feeling fine.’

‘I’ve just been up to the house and put a hot water bottle in your bed and a thermos of milk on the table,’ said Mrs Todd. ‘You’re to drink every drop of that milk, mind!’

‘Yes, Mrs Todd,’ said Alison meekly. Normally she was grateful for the house-keeper’s maternal warmth but just at that moment, she wished Mrs Todd would go away, that Maggie would go away, and leave her to talk to this odd policeman who was the first person who had ever guessed how she really felt.

‘You wouldn’t think I had good central heating,’ said Maggie crossly.

‘There’s nothing mair comforting than a nice hot water bottle,’ said Mrs Todd firmly.

Maggie saw Colonel Halburton-Smythe and decided to go flirt with him to liven up the evening and try her hand with the copper later on. Alison watched her go with relief but then found that Mrs Todd was determined to stay. Hamish talked for a little to both Alison and Mrs Todd and then was claimed by Priscilla.

‘The guests are thinning out,’ said Priscilla. ‘Not long to go, Hamish. How’s Mrs Todd enjoying her job as housekeeper?’

‘She’s fond of that niece, Alison,’ said Hamish. ‘I suppose she enjoys the money. Mrs Baird is supposed to be rich. Also, it gives Mrs Todd an interest. She hasn’t done much since her husband died.’

‘When was that again?’ asked Priscilla.

‘Two years? Three? Can’t quite remember myself.’

‘And what do you make of Mrs Baird?’

Hamish frowned. ‘She makes me uneasy,’ he said. ‘She’s the sort of woman who creates violence. I think she’s a bad woman.’

‘Why, Hamish Macbeth! You old-fashioned thing!’

‘No, I didnae mean scarlet woman. She’s spiteful to that niece of hers. She likes to be the centre of attention. She likes excitement. She think she likes affairs and yet she’s too fat to have much hope at the moment.’

‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that,’ said Priscilla, watching her father’s flushed and excited face as he spoke to Maggie Baird.