Hamish Macbeth 09 (1993) - Death of a Travelling Man (4 page)

“There’s no need to tell Hamish,” said Priscilla. “He’s probably having a lovely time sitting in his kitchen with his feet on the stove.”

Then she gave an exclamation. “My scarf’s gone. He must have taken it.”

“Aye, weel, ye’ll need tae phone Hamish now. That’s theft.”

§

Sean skied easily down towards the village. He had heard gossip about the local bobby and Priscilla. Some said he was sweet on her, some said she was sweet on him. Whatever way, he planned to let Hamish see him wearing the scarf. Irritating that Highland pig would be a pleasure. And then he cursed under his breath. Who was to know whether Hamish would recognize that scarf? And what if that hoity-toity bitch called him to report a theft? Then Hamish would have him, Sean, just where he wanted him. Damn. He skied back and made his way across country so that he would arrive at the back of the shop. The snow was easing now. He looked in the window. Priscilla was just putting on her coat. Then she switched off the lights and went out and locked the shop door behind her.

He waited a few moments and then slid quietly round to the front. He unzipped a pocket in his anorak and took out a set of tools. He fiddled expertly with the lock until the tumblers clicked and then he eased the door open. It only took a moment to go quickly in and drop the scarf on the floor behind the counter. Then, just as quickly, he was outside again and had locked the door.

§

Hamish Macbeth had finally managed to reach the stranded climbers. One man was all right, the other man’s leg had been broken in several places. Hamish gave him an injection and then sent up a distress flare, hoping he himself would not die of exposure before the Mountain Rescue team found them. He was too weary to give these inexperienced climbers a lecture on the folly of going up mountains in the north of Scotland in such weather. At least the snow was thinning slightly, but it was bitterly cold.

To his relief, he heard the whirring of helicopter blades and stood up and waved and shouted. One by one, they were hoisted into the helicopter, the injured man, strapped on to a stretcher, going first. “Set me down in the village,” shouted Hamish above the roar of the engine and the pilot nodded.

How incredibly long it had taken to climb up the mountain to that crag and how quickly he was whizzed down and deposited on the waterfront in front of the wide car park of the deserted Lochdubh Hotel. He trudged wearily along to the police station, aching in every muscle.

He was furious to find the station unmanned and the kitchen stove out. But perhaps Willie had been called out on an emergency. He played back the answering service and heard Priscilla’s voice asking him to call.

He sat down and phoned her at the hotel and listened to the tale of the theft of the scarf.

As he spoke to her, a churning, grating and whirring sound from outside told him that the Lochdubh snow-plough was once more back in action.

“Don’t worry, Priscilla,” said Hamish. “In a way that’s the best news I’ve heard all day. I’ll get rid of the bastard now.”

He left a note for Willie and then got out the Land Rover and moved off slowly along the newly cleared road. He stopped at the manse. The lights were on in the front room and he could clearly see Sean sitting at the dining table with the minister and his wife. There was no sign of Cheryl.

Well, he thought with satisfaction, what’ll they think of their ewe lamb when they hear what I’ve got to say?

Mrs Wellington answered the door and looked with disfavour at the tall lanky figure of the sergeant.

“What is it, Hamish?”

“I want a word with Sean Gourlay.”

“Come in.”

Hamish followed her into the manse dining room. “Sean Gourlay,” said Hamish, “I am arresting you for theft and must ask you to accompany me to the police station. Anything you say—”

“Wait a minute,” said Sean easily. “Theft of what?”

“Miss Halburton-Smythe’s scarf. You took it from her gift shop this afternoon.”

“This is ridiculous,” exclaimed Mrs Wellington. “She probably lost it.”

“It’s an awful fuss to make about a scarf,” pointed out the minister. “My umbrella was stolen last time I was in the Lochdubh bar, but no one did anything about that.”

“Nonetheless,” began Hamish, “I—”

“Fiddlesticks!” said Mrs Wellington. “We are going up right now to have a look at that gift shop, and mark my words, I am sure that scarf will be there. Young girls are so careless.”

“If you insist,” said Hamish. “I can take a statement from Priscilla when I’m there.”

He drove them up to the castle and received a long lecture from Mrs Wellington about how police were always persecuting innocent citizens instead of going after real criminals.

Priscilla avoided looking at Sean as she led them all over to the gift shop and unlocked the door and switched on the lights. “My scarf was with my coat on that hook behind the counter,” said Priscilla. “Mr Gourlay said he wanted it.”

“Why?” asked Hamish sharply.

“It’s a pretty one and I thought poor little Cheryl might like that.”

“That’s not what you said to me,” protested Priscilla.

“This is all a fuss about nothing.” Mrs Wellington heaved her tweedy bulk behind the counter. “You probably dropped that scarf. It’s probably on the floor or somewhere. Why, here it is!” She held it up. “Is this the scarf?”

“Yes,” said Priscilla, amazed. “But how…?”

“How did, it get there?” demanded Mrs Wellington. “It didn’t get anywhere. It just lay where you dropped it while you and this Highland layabout go around persecuting innocent young men. Oh, yes, Hamish, I know you’ve had your knife into poor Sean since the day he arrived.”

Her booming voice went remorselessly on and on while Hamish led them out to the car. She was still berating him when he dropped them off at the manse. “And furthermore,” added Mrs Wellington, “Miss Halburton-Smythe is being influenced by your tawdry mind. She is a lady. I know we are supposed to live in a classless society, but you would do better, Hamish Macbeth, to consort with your own kind of female!” Sean let out a chuckle of sheer delight.

Exhausted and furious, Hamish headed for home and then slammed on the brakes outside the Napoli restaurant. In the glow of candlelight he could see Willie seated at a window table.

He hurtled into the restaurant and towered over Willie, who cringed when he saw him.

“What the devil do you think you are doing?” howled Hamish.

Lucia rushed forward, her eyes full of tears. “He was helping me,” she sobbed.

“Now then.” Old Mr Ferrari made his majestic way over. “Haud yer wheest, Sergeant. The policeman here was helping Lucia clean the stove in the kitchen, and a grand job he made o’ it, too. If all the coppers in Scotland were that helpful, the polis might hae a better image.”

Hamish sank down suddenly into the chair opposite Willie. “Has everyone run mad?” he asked. “Begin at the beginning, Willie, and tell me why you left your post.”

“It was awf’y quiet,” said Willie, “and I thocht I’d jist call at the kitchen door to see if Lucia was all right. You see, I think it’s part o’ ma duties tae—”

“Yes, yes,” said Hamish. “Skip that bit.”

“Well, herself was scrubbing at the stove wi’ her wee hands and no’ doin’ the job well at all, at all. “You need pure ammonia for that,” I says and I hae a bottle at the station. I only meant tae show her, but I got working and I didnae notice the time and then Mr Ferrari told me tae sit down and hae a glass o’ wine. So I was jist having a glass o’ chanter when you walked in.”

“Chianti,” said Hamish.

“Aye, weel, that’s what I said.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and surveyed his side-kick and took several deep breaths. If Willie had not been in Lochdubh, he thought, then his own day would have been much the same. Perhaps instead of constantly shouting at this infuriating policeman, it might be an idea to try some kindness.

“Some wine?” asked Mr Ferrari, deftly placing a glass in front of Hamish with one hand and holding up a bottle with the other.

Hamish Macbeth sighed. If you can’t beat them, join them.

“Aye, that would be grand,” he said.

“I’ll hue the law on ye, ye randy! I’ll hae yer life!”

—S. R. Crockett

A
hard frost set in, turning Lochdubh into a Christmas card, and slowing the tumult of the River Anstey.

A subdued Willie told Hamish, when the sergeant had returned from an early-morning walk around the village, that headquarters at Strathbane had called and that he was to phone Superintendent Peter Daviot immediately.

Puzzled, Hamish phoned. The superintendent was not available but his secretary said the message was that he was to report to Strathbane in person as soon as possible, but she could not say what it was about.

“They’re probably going to give you some sort o’ medal,” said Willie, “for the wee laddie’s rescue.”

“Maybe,” said Hamish, fighting down a feeling of unease, “although I thought if that was the case they might have sent me a formal letter. Keep the house warm, Willie, and I’ll talk to that scunner Blair again about the central heating he promised me and didn’t deliver. Check the sheep-dip papers and don’t forget to cover the beat. The roads are terrible and someone could be in trouble. Use your own car. I’ll need to take the Land Rover with me. I’ve forgotten to give the sheep their winter feed. Do that and make sure they’ve got water.”

“Hardly the job for a policeman,” mumbled Willie, who seemed determined to remain in a prolonged sulk.

No sooner had Hamish driven off than Willie darted into the office and phoned a friend at headquarters and asked why Hamish was being sent for.

“Oh, it’s a right goings-on,” said the friend. “Some tart’s come in, screaming fur the super and carrying a baby. She says the bairn’s father is Hamish Macbeth.”

“Oh, my!” exclaimed Willie in simple delight.

“He’s goin’ tae have that uniform and stripes ripped off him,” said the friend. “I should think the police station at Lochdubh will be yours after today.”

Willie thanked him and put down the phone. He went through to the living quarters and looked slowly around. He could get that wallpaper with the nice Regency stripe for the living room and get rid of that nasty open fire which caused so much dust and put in one of those electric ones with the fake logs. He would take over Hamish’s bedroom, which was larger than his own. He would rip the woodburning stove out of the kitchen and replace it with a Calor gas cooker. He rubbed his hands gleefully. And that battered armchair Hamish liked so much could go for a start. A good spring cleaning was what the place needed. Whistling cheerfully, he tied on an apron and got to work.

§

Hamish sat nervously in the superintendent’s office in Strathbane Police Headquarters. Strathbane! How he hated the place. A dreary, soulless town on the edge of the sea, with rotting docks and rotten houses and a general grey air of failure.

Superintendent Peter Daviot came in and Hamish jumped to his feet.

“Sit down, Macbeth,” said the superintendent. No ‘Hamish’. A bad sign.

“What’s it about?” asked Hamish, wondering if Priscilla’s father’s water bailiff had seen him poaching on the river and reported him.

“It’s about Maggie Dunlop.”

“Who?”

“Come, come, Sergeant, let’s talk this out man to man. Maggie Dunlop is waiting downstairs with your son.”

“My! This is a bad joke.”

“No, Macbeth, she has reliable witnesses and photographs to prove it.”

Hamish leaned back in his chair and said very quietly, “Let’s have the lassie in here. I’m fascinated.”

“Very well. I’m sorry about this. I thought you were doing so well, and the rescue of that little boy from the river was a credit to the force.” He pressed a bell on his desk and said, “Send up Miss Dunlop. You will find her with Mr Blair.”

“Blair,” said Hamish slowly. “Is he behind this?”

“I don’t know what you mean. He happened to be here when she called—in great distress, I may add.”

After a few moments the door opened and Blair ushered in a scrawny girl clutching a dirty baby. “Oh, Hamish,” she cried when she saw him. “How could ye?”

“I’ve never seen you before in my life,” said Hamish flatly.

She began to weep and wail while the baby bawled. Blair thrust two photographs at Hamish. “Whit hae ye tae say tae that, laddie?”

Hamish stared down at the photographs in bewilderment. They were two snapshots of him with Maggie. He was smiling and had an arm around her shoulders. In each photo he was in uniform. “They must be fakes,” he said.

The baby abruptly stopped crying and looked at Hamish wide-eyed.

Mr Daviot leaned forward and clasped his hands. “Now we all make mistakes. This happened three years ago, Miss Dunlop says. She says she’s written to you several times begging for support money for the child, but you never answered.”

“And who is this reliable witness or witnesses?” demanded Hamish grimly.

“Mr and Mrs John Tullyfeather, who live next door to Maggie, can testify that you visited her frequently.”

“And where do they and this woman here live?”

“The Nelson Mandela block of flats down by the old dock. Stop this farce, Hamish. As you very well know, Miss Dunlop lives at number 23.”

Blair gave a coarse laugh. “Ye cannae get yer leg over these days, Hamish, withoot paying the consequences.”

“That’s quite enough of that,” snapped Mr Daviot. “You may get back to your duties, Blair.”

Blair left reluctantly.

Hamish looked closely at the photographs again. He suddenly remembered the horrible time when the police station had been closed down in Lochdubh and he had been called to serve on the force in Strathbane. Before his blessed return to his village, where the locals had organized a crime wave to get him back, he had had his photograph taken down on the waterfront by Jimmy Anderson. But in those pictures he had been standing with his arm around WPC Pat Macleod. Jimmy had given him the film to get developed, but then Hamish had had the glad news of his return and had left the roll of film in his desk. So someone, probably Blair, had got the firm and persuaded some bent photographer, probably himself—Hamish remembered the detective saying he had a darkroom at home—to fake up the photos.