Death of a Policeman (5 page)

He gathered up the greasy papers—Sonsie had enjoyed a fish and Lugs, a deep-fried haggis slice—and crossed to a waste bin. Then he froze. Beside the waste bin was a pub, and as he was about to turn away, the door opened and Shona emerged with a handsome young man.

“Why it's yourself!” cried Shona. “What are you doing in Braikie?”

“Just checking the streets,” said Dick, “but it all seems quiet.”

“Are those your animals?” Sonsie and Lugs had crossed the road and were staring up at her.

“They're Hamish Macbeth's,” said Dick. “He's out tonight so I'm stuck with them.”

“What a magnificent cat! It's very big.”

“Looks just like a wild cat,” said her companion.

“No, no,” said Dick quickly. “Just big.”

“I'm sorry,” said Shona. “I forgot to introduce you. This is my brother, Kelvin. Kelvin, this is that nice policeman, Mr. Fraser, that I told you about.”

Dick heartily shook Kelvin's hand. Her brother! He glanced down at her hands. There was a garnet ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. No engagement ring, no wedding ring. All his good resolutions disappeared and his heart sang.

Hamish and Priscilla entered the brasserie. The room was dark, lit only with single candles on each table.

Priscilla was wearing a black sheath dress and high heels. Hamish saw the men casting admiring glances in her direction. He often wondered why she was still single. Perhaps potential suitors were put off by her sexual coldness. It was that coldness that had made him break off their engagement. And yet, part of him still longed for a passionate Priscilla that did not exist.

Hamish peered at the menu. “The prices are pretty steep,” he said. “I thought the brasserie was supposed to be cheaper than the dining room.”

“I'm paying,” said Priscilla.

“Oh, no you're not,” said Hamish huffily. “The place is crowded. I don't know how they can all afford it.”

“It's a special offer evening. Get the waiter to take away the à la carte menu and bring us the set menu.”

When the set menu appeared, it turned out to be only twenty-five pounds a head. “I saw this menu advertised in the
Highland Times
before we left,” said Priscilla. “It looks not bad.”

The menu offered a choice of two starters: venison pâté or cock-a-leekie soup. The main dishes were either braised kidneys or roast chicken and the dessert: sherry trifle or chocolate gâteau. Probably the cheapest ingredients they could think of, thought Hamish.

At Priscilla's urging, he ordered a carafe of red wine instead of one of the bottles on offer, because the prices were outrageous.

While they ate venison pâté and braised kidneys, Pricilla talked about gossip from the hotel and Hamish half listened while stretching his policeman's antennae round the room. But it was all very middle-class highland Scottish. It was hard to make out people clearly in the dimness. Hamish had a good memory for villains and a good nose for smelling out the ones who had so far flown beneath the radar. But all seemed so respectable.

After they had finished their coffee, Hamish said, “Well, thanks for the idea, Priscilla, but I can't get even one sniff of wrongdoing.”

He called for the bill. Then his eyes sharpened. “What's up?” asked Priscilla.

“Something's odd. The waiter went to ring up our bill and the maître d' said something to him and picked up the phone. The waiter stopped trying to get the bill.”

“Is your credit card maxed out?” asked Priscilla.

“No, I didn't give it to him. I was waiting for him to bring his machine over to the table.”

They waited. Then Hamish gave an impatient noise and made to rise to his feet. The maître d' came hurrying over. “Mr. Macbeth,” he said with a smile. “Our owner, Mr. Bentley, says that you are our guests for the evening.”

“I'm sorry,” said Hamish. “I am a policeman and I can't accept freebies. Thank him very much but bring me the bill right away.”

“But, sir…”

“Do as you're told,” snapped Hamish.

Priscilla looked amused. “Hamish Macbeth, the famous moocher of the Highlands, turning down a free meal!”

“This is great,” said Hamish. “Did you book the table under my name?”

“No, under mine.”

“There is probably a CCTV camera somewhere scanning the guests so that Bentley can know who is in his restaurant. I wonder if Cyril ate here.”

The bill arrived. Hamish scanned it to make sure he was being charged for everything and then paid.

In the car on the road back, Priscilla said, “Maybe he was just being generous. Surely a lot of these places like to cosy up to the police for security reasons.”

“Maybe, but this stinks, somehow. Murdo Bentley gave me the creeps. I wonder if he's offered free hospitality to anyone other than Cyril, like Blair or Daviot.”

“Wouldn't they refuse just like you?”

“Not if Murdo was a member of their lodge or Rotary Club. We all help each other, type of thing. Daviot wouldn't see anything wrong with it if that were the case. The well-heeled of Strathbane are a very small community.”

“How are you going to go with this?”

“I don't know. I'll talk it over with Jimmy.”

Hamish arrived home to find that Dick had shaved off his moustache. He was lounging in a sofa in the living room with the large cat draped over his lap like a rug and the dog at his feet. Sonsie opened one eye, looked at Hamish, and went back to sleep again.

“Can I get you something?” asked Dick.

“No, I'm fine. Why did you shave off your moustache?”

“Felt like a change. I think I'll let the black hair grow out.”

“Good idea,” said Hamish. He thought Dick's face looked almost babyish and naked without the moustache.

He went through to the police office and phoned Jimmy. Jimmy listened to Hamish's suspicions about Murdo.

“I can't really see us doing anything about it,” said Jimmy. “The man's as clean as a whistle. I think you're out on a limb there, Hamish. But we may have a lead. Sam's Rides over at Dornoch reported the theft of a motorbike four days ago.”

“What make?”

“A Honda CB1000.”

“What time of day did the theft take place?”

“Bang in the middle of the day. One of the staff had been letting a customer go for a test drive. They went into the office to get out the paperwork. The idiot salesman left the keys in the ignition. Next thing they know someone in leathers and a helmet roared off with it. Get over there tomorrow and have a word with them.”

“What about the autopsy?”

“Pretty much what the killing looked like—a shotgun blast to the chest.”

“Okay, Jimmy, I'll go there tomorrow.”

“Have you interviewed that librarian?”

“Dick spoke to her. Cyril bedded her and then left her flat. Dick got her to sign a statement saying she had lied about me which is why I'm back on the job. Didn't Daviot tell you?”

“I was told by Helen that you were to be given a second chance.”

“Bitches to the right o' me and bitches to the left o' me,” said Hamish moodily.

“And tell Dick to get back to the library and talk to Hetty again. See if she had any inkling that Cyril was on drugs.”

“Anything been found in his blood?”

“They're checking. It isn't
CSI: Miami
. It's Scotland. Takes forever.”

The following morning, Hamish told Dick he was to go to the library to talk once more to Hetty.

Dick looked elated. “Glad to,” he said.

“You're not sweet on Hetty, are you?”

“No! You have to be joking.”

Dick retreated to look out his best uniform, one he hardly ever wore, considering it wasted on the usual sort of jobs he was asked to perform. When he emerged it was to find that Hamish had left and had taken the dog and cat with him.

He set off for Braikie on a sunny day. The sky above was clear blue and the two mountains that loomed over the village had a covering of snow on their peaks.

Dick was in such a good mood that he even stopped on the waterfront to say good morning to the Currie sisters.

“What have you done to your hair?” asked Nessie.

“Hair?” echoed her sister.

“It grows in black from time to time,” said Dick defensively.

“Nonsense. That's one bad dye job,” said Nessie.

“Bad dye job,” murmured Jessie.

Dick let in the clutch and roared off, his face flaming. The dye was supposed to be temporary and wash out after several shampoos. Dick got as far as the Tommel Castle Hotel when he suddenly made a U-turn and raced back to the police station. Once inside, he stripped off, went into the shower, and shampooed his hair vigorously as rivulets of black dye coursed down his plump body. He finally towelled his hair dry and saw to his relief that most of the dye had gone.

But the exercise of having to race back to the police station to get rid of the dye had sobered his elation. He vowed to be sensible. Shona was not for him. He would do his duty and talk to the horrible Hetty. He reflected that maybe Blair had some sort of hold over Cyril. Otherwise, why would an Adonis like Cyril go so far as to seduce Hetty?

Hamish arrived at Sam's Rides in Dornoch. It was on the outskirts of the town. Sam Buchan, the owner, seemed pleased to see him. He was a big highlander with a shock of grey hair and hands like spades.

“I thocht the police had forgotten about thon theft,” he said. “Cheeky sod. Nipped the bike from under ma nose.”

“Do you have CCTV?” asked Hamish.

“Aye. I kept thon tape. Come into the office and have a look.”

Hamish's heart sank when he saw the tape. It must have been used over and over again and it was like looking at the film through a snowstorm. A dim figure in helmet and leathers mounted the bike and roared off.

“Did you ask in the town if anyone had seen this biker on foot?”

“Nobody saw anything.”

Hamish walked out of the office and looked around. Across the road from the business was a stand of trees. “I'll look over there,” he said. “Someone could have hidden in those trees and waited for an opportunity.”

He walked over and began to search the ground. He found two cigarette butts and put them in a forensic bag. Looking across the road, he could understand why Sam and his employees didn't bother much about security. It looked so quiet and peaceful. Above Dornoch, on the top of snow-covered Ben Bhraggie, stood the hundred-foot-tall statue of the hated first Duke of Sutherland, the man responsible for the infamous high clearances when the crofters had been thrown off their lands to make way for sheep. Dornoch, with its famous golf course and thirteenth-century church, was very low on crime. There were no biker gangs in Sutherland. He felt frustrated. Murdo's bland face rose before his eyes. There was something there. The restaurant was outside Strathbane and, therefore, technically on his territory. As he stood there, a mad idea took hold of him.

He went back to the garage and asked if he could rent a motorbike. “Sure,” said Sam.

“You couldnae rent me a helmet as well?” asked Hamish.

“Comes wi' the rental.”

Hamish began to plan for the evening ahead.

Shona waved to Dick as he entered the library. He hurried up to her and said, “I'm just going to have another word wi' Hetty. Free for lunch?”

“Aye. Grand.”

Shona watched him trot off to where Hetty was seated at her computer. What a nice, steady man, thought Shona. Just the sort of person to make a good partner for Hetty.

She had invited Hetty to a party at her house that evening. Shona had not wanted to issue the invitation, as Hetty had a habit, after a few drinks, of thinking she was irresistible. But Dick might be the answer.

Hetty was scowling at Dick. “What now?”

“I wondered, now that things have calmed down, if you can think of anything about Cyril that might give us a clue as to why he was murdered.”

“I don't know,” said Hetty shrilly. “I've thought and thought.”

“Did he say anything about drugs?”

“He told me stories about drug raids in Strathbane, but nothing in particular.”

“Did he mention a restaurant called Seven Steps?”

“He did, I remember. He said he would take me there one evening but he never did.”

“Did he ever mention the name Murdo Bentley?”

“No. Now go away. I don't want to think about it any more.”

Dick handed over his card. “If you do think of anything, let me know.”

He winked at Shona as he left, went out, and waited patiently in his car until she finally emerged for her lunchtime break.

In the café, Dick said, “I'm amazed a bonnie lassie like you isnae married.”

“I've actually been engaged twice,” said Shona, “but I always got cold feet.”

“Why's that?”

“My parents—they're dead now—were always rowing. Then my father started beating my mother. It was awful. Ma once told me that he was lovely when they got married and then it all fell to bits. I'm frightened that would happen to me.”

“What you need,” said Dick, “is a nice, steady bloke, maybe a wee bit older. How old are you, Shona, if you don't mind me asking?”

“Not a bit. I'm twenty-eight.”

That's not bad at all, thought Dick. Twenty-eight's quite mature.

“I'm having a party at my place tonight,” said Shona. “Like to come along?”

“Yes, great. What time?”

“Eight o'clock.” She took out a card and handed it over. “That's the address. Hetty will be there and maybe she'll give you some bit of information she might have forgotten. Why not bring Mr. Macbeth?”

“I'll ask him,” said Dick, “but he's awfy busy.”

Dick fretted about the invitation to Hamish all the way back to Lochdubh. Women always fancied Hamish, he thought gloomily. But if he did not tell Hamish, then he might come across Shona who would say something like,
Sorry you were too busy to come to my party.

But when he returned to Lochdubh and reluctantly issued the invitation, Hamish only said, “You go. I don't feel like a party.” He did not want to get Dick involved in what he planned to do.

As soon as Dick had left that evening, Hamish got into the Land Rover and drove round the end of Lochdubh and into the gloom of the forest on the other side. He drove up into one of the logging trails and parked the Land Rover. Then he settled down to wait.

After a time, he fell asleep, but he had set an alarm clock next to him for midnight. He woke with a start when the alarm went off. He got down from the Land Rover, lifted the motorbike out of the back, and put on the helmet. He was dressed in black: black sweater and black trousers.

He roared off over circuitous back paths until he was clear of the village and then set off in the direction of Strathbane. Just short of the Seven Steps restaurant, he dismounted, donned gloves, and lifted a round heavy rock out of the carrier at the back.

He set off again. When he came level with the plate-glass windows of the restaurant's dining room, he stopped but kept the engine running. The restaurant was in darkness. He hurled the rock straight through the plate-glass windows and sped off, flying along the roads under the blazing stars above.

When he got back to the police station, Dick was in the living room. “Some hooligan's smashed the windows of the Seven Steps restaurant,” he said. “We're to get ower there right away.”

“Give me a minute to get my uniform on,” said Hamish.

Ten minutes later, they set out on the road. “We'll need to see if we can get a look at the tapes from the CCTV cameras,” said Hamish. “Probably some drunk. How was the party?”

“Not my thing,” said Dick. “I only went in the hope that when Hetty had had a few, she might come up with a bit more information.”

“And did she?

“No,” said Dick curtly.

Apart from Hetty, the party had consisted of young people of Shona's age. Dick could just about remember when late twenties was not considered young. Shona, looking pretty in a gold sequinned top and a tiny velvet skirt, had settled him on a sofa and then had brought Hetty over to sit beside him. Hetty had been wearing a blouse with a plunging neckline, revealing a black push-up bra underneath. Her face was like a Japanese Noh mask with heavy make-up.

Dick estimated that Hetty had already had quite a bit to drink. Obviously she thought herself irresistible. Shona and her friends were all dancing. When Hetty put a hand on his knee, Dick got up abruptly. He had just seen Shona heading for the kitchen. He was about to go in when he heard a girl say, “Thon policeman doesn't look too happy. Should I ask him for a dance?”

“No,” came Shona's voice with dreadful clarity. “Leave the olds to get to know one another. I thought he might be a suitable partner for Hetty.”

Dick had walked straight out of the house without saying goodbye, that awful word
olds
ringing in his ears.

Hamish hoped to get to the restaurant before anyone from Strathbane arrived. He now had an excuse to see the CCTV tapes and hoped he could quickly scan back to earlier in the evening to see if there was any face amongst the customers he recognised. It was a long shot. When he had been there with Priscilla everyone looked respectable.

The lights were on in the building when they arrived. A squat, swarthy man with a bald head came out to meet them. “I'm the manager, Bruce Jamieson,” he said. “This is awful.”

“Do you live on the premises?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, I've got a flat upstairs.”

“I'd like a look at your security cameras,” said Hamish.

“Come in and I'll show you where they are.”

The manager led the way into a small office and switched on the light. “I'll get you the recent tape,” he said. He switched on the equipment on a large desk. “You can see we've got monitors for the dining room, the brasserie, and the bar.”

“The outside?” asked Hamish.

“Here you go.”

Hamish worked the tape backwards. He saw himself roaring up and then speeding off. To his relief, it was not a good shot, more like a blurred image.

“Let me see the tape of who was in the restaurant tonight,” said Hamish.

As Hamish slotted in the tape, he could hear approaching sirens. “You'd best go out and talk to them,” he said. “I'll go on looking.”

He watched the dining room tape for the previous evening. He studied the faces as the camera panned from table to table. The he uttered an exclamation and hit the freeze button. “See anything?” asked Dick.

“Superintendent Daviot and his missus,” said Hamish gloomily. He set the tape in motion again.

“What are you doing?” came Jimmy's voice from behind him. “You're supposed to be looking for the man who threw that rock through the window.”

“I just wanted to see who was in the restaurant earlier.”

“Why?”

Hamish swivelled round but could not see the manager. He said in a low voice, “You know why.”

“This is becoming an obsession,” snapped Jimmy. “Let me see the tape of the man throwing the rock.”

Hamish changed the tapes. Jimmy studied the motorcyclist. “That's a fat lot of good,” he said. “This must be an old system. The images aren't very sharp.”

“But it's a motorcyclist again,” said Hamish. “And Cyril was murdered by a motorbiker. Don't you find that odd?”

“Murderers don't go around throwing rocks.”

“So why did he pick this restaurant? There must be a connection.”

“Murdo Bentley phoned Daviot and got him out of bed. We're to treat this as priority. A forensic team are on their way. Start tomorrow and check around and see if any bikes have been stolen. I'll take over here.”

Hamish slid the tape of the dining room up under his regulation sweater. He held on to his stomach in case it slipped down. “Got indigestion,” he said, making for the door.

Dick followed him out.

Before he got in the Land Rover, Hamish scanned the ground nervously for tyre tracks, but the expanse of tarmac outside the restaurant was dry. No tracks.

On the road back, Dick asked, “Why did you steal thon tape? I saw you shoving it up your jumper.”

“I want to look at it back at the station in peace and quiet.”

In his living room, Hamish slotted in the tape and he and Dick settled back to watch it. “If Daviot's getting free meals, that's certainly going to make life difficult,” said Hamish.

“Freeze it!” cried Dick.

“Frozen. What?”

“Thon's the provost and his missus. Michty me!”

“Let's just go in for wild speculation,” said Hamish. “Let say Murdo is a criminal. What better security to have than to entertain the great and good of Strathbane wi' freebies?”

“I would ha' thought you were havering afore,” said Dick. “But thon manager fair gied me the creeps.”

Hamish started the tape again. “Wait a bit,” he suddenly said. “I'll go back. Now watch the maître d' going ower to that table. He's a different one from the one in the brasserie.”

Dick watched as the maître d' approached a heavyset businessman and a blonde woman at a corner table.

“Freeze!” shouted Dick again. “Thon's Jessie McTavish, one of the most expensive tarts in town.”

“Who's the man with her?”

“Don't know.”

“Well, watch now,” said Hamish, starting up the tape. The maître d' approached the table with a little silver salver. He tilted open the lid. The man nodded. Jessie opened her capacious handbag, and the contents were tipped in.

“Back again and freeze,” said Hamish. “Let's see if we can find what's under that salver.”

“Can't see,” said Dick. “But the man's sliding him a roll of notes.”

“Now there's Jessie getting up,” said Hamish. “Probably going to the loo. Let's keep watching.” At last he said, “Here she comes again. Would you say she had sniffed something or taken something?”

“Can't make it out.”

“I'm getting back over there to show this tape to Jimmy. I'll say I took it by accident.”

“I'm awfy tired,” said Dick.

“Oh, wait here and I'll go myself.”

Hoping that Blair hadn't turned up, Hamish headed back to the restaurant.

There was no sign of Blair, but Jimmy was walking up and down outside the taped-off crime scene while the scenes of crime operatives worked the ground.

“Can you leave here?” asked Hamish.

“Why?” asked Jimmy.

“I took a CCTV tape of the dining room by accident.”

“You what? You can't do that!”

“It was a mistake,” pleaded Hamish. “Could you get in there somehow and say you want to see the tapes again and then give the manager a receipt for this one?”