Death of a Policeman

by M C Beaton

  Dick served the trifle.

  “You’re a lucky man, Hamish,” said Shona, “having Dick spoil you like this.”

  Hamish looked at Dick and said, “Oh, we don’t often dine like this.” So that was it, he thought. Poor Dick. If he had told me he had fallen for the girl, I would have stayed away.

  “I shouldn’t have drunk so much,” said Shona. “I’ve got to drive back to Braikie.”

  “I haven’t had anything to drink,” said Hamish. “I’ll take you home, and Dick can drive your car over in the morning.”

  “That’s so kind of you. Do you know Arthur Gibbs and Tony McVee?”

  “I’ve heard of them,” said Hamish. “Not villains, are they?”

  “Oh, no, I went to a party at their house last year and everything was so beautiful.”

  After they had drunk coffee, Shona stifled a yawn. “I hate to end the evening,” she said. “But I’ve eaten and drunk too much and I’m very sleepy.”

  “Right. I’ll take you home,” said Hamish.

  Dick helped Shona into her coat. She smiled and said softly, “Thank you for a wonderful evening.” She kissed him on the cheek. Hamish noticed the way Dick turned fiery red.

  On the road to Braikie, Hamish said, “Dick’s a good man. He’ll make a wonderful husband.”

  “I know,” said Shona. “He told me. You’re a lucky man. I’m all for gay marriage.”

  “Whit! What’s the silly numpty been saying?” roared Hamish.

  “It’s all right,” said Shona. “I won’t tell a soul. I suppose they can be cruel about that sort of thing in the police force.”

  “We are both heterosexual,” said Hamish. “Why on earth did you think otherwise?”

  “Dick said he was your house husband. I was a bit worried when I saw all the lengths he had gone to but he said he was used to giving you the best.”

  Hamish searched his mind for something to say to save Dick’s face. At last he said, “It’s all my fault. I’m so desperate to get information about Cyril that I told Dick to invite you and give you a slap-up dinner. He is a very conscientious police officer.”

  “He certainly went to a lot of trouble. I’m going to cook a meal for him and you as well.”

  “That’s nice of you,” said Hamish. “I’ll tell him.”

  He dropped Shona at her home and returned to the police station, where Dick was dismally loading the dishwasher.

  “You gave that poor lassie the idea we’re a couple,” said Hamish. “House husband, indeed. What did you expect her to think?”

  “Not that anyway,” said Dick. “What a disaster! She was nervous when she saw the champagne and everything and I realised she must be thinking I meant to seduce her.”

  “I began to wonder when she started talking about being at a party given by a couple o’ gays. Don’t you think she’s a bit too young, Dick?”

  “I know. I know. But every time I look at her, I forget.”

  Chapter Seven

  A photograph is a secret about a secret. The more it tells you, the less you know.

  —Diane Arbus

  Jimmy and Hamish met up the next morning. They switched on the receiver and sat and waited. When Daviot’s phone rang, they both jumped nervously. Helen’s voice came loud and clear, “Superintendent Daviot’s office.”

  “Put me through. It’s Mrs. Daviot.”

  “You can hear both sides of the call,” exclaimed Jimmy.

  “Wheesht!” admonished Hamish.

  Then a click as Daviot took the call. “What is it?” he demanded harshly.

  In quavering tones, quite unlike her usual robust voice, Mrs. Daviot said, “I’ve invited the Baxters for dinner tomorrow night and I wondered…”

  “Cancel it!”

  “What? But I…”

  “I said, cancel it.”

  The phone was slammed down.

  Hamish and Jimmy stared at each other. Daviot had been under his domineering wife’s thumb as long as they could remember.

  The day dragged on as they listened to one official call after another. Daviot went out for lunch. “We should get a bite ourselves,” said Jimmy.

  “I don’t want to risk missing anything,” said Hamish.

  “I’ll nip round to the caff and get us a couple o’ pies.”

  When Jimmy came back with the pies and two cardboard containers of coffee, Hamish said, “I feel dirty doing this. What if he finds that bug? They’ll think terrorists and get the experts in and it’ll all be traced back to Dick.”

  “Get it back tonight. May as well go on listening.”

  Daviot’s phone rang, making them jump. Helen’s genteel tones announced, “Mr. Bentley for you.”

  There was a long silence and then Daviot said wearily, “Put him through.”

  “And how are we today?” asked Murdo. “Being a good boy?”

  “You’ll ruin me,” said Daviot bitterly. “There are questions being asked downstairs about why we dropped any investigation.”

  Murdo laughed. “They’ll get over it. Just you go on doing as you’re told or those photos of your wife go out on the Internet. Have a nice day.”

  Jimmy and Hamish stared at each other. Mrs. Daviot was a plump, grey-haired matron. What on earth had she been photographed doing?

  “That’s it,” said Jimmy. “We go up there and say we’ve had an anonymous call that Murdo’s holding incriminating photos of his wife.”

  “All he has to do is deny it,” said Hamish. “Also, if he crumbles, he’ll lose his job and God knows who we’ll get instead. We’ve got to get these photos.”

  “How? They could be in his office in town or somewhere in that damn restaurant.”

  “There’s a big safe in a room off the corridor at the back of the restaurant,” said Hamish. “I’ll try there first. The restaurant closes on Monday.”

  “There’ll be burglar alarms all over the place. And you’re no safe breaker.”

  “I’ll think o’ something,” said Hamish desperately. “I don’t remember the place being alarmed at the back. I’ll get in there somehow and rummage through his desk. People sometimes leave a record of the safe code in their desks.”

  “And if you’re caught?”

  “I’ll take Daviot down with me,” said Hamish grimly.

  “And just how will you do that?” sneered Jimmy. “All he has to say innocently is, What photos? You’ll be out o’ a job and Daviot’ll still be in Murdo’s clutches.”

  Hamish clutched his red hair. “I’ll chust need to see what I can do,” he shouted.

  Dick received a call from Shona, inviting him and Hamish for dinner on Sunday evening. “I’d be delighted,” said Dick. “I’ll ask Hamish, but I don’t know if he’ll be free.”

  Shona said she looked forward to seeing him and rang off. She jumped as Hetty’s voice came from behind her. “Were you using the library phone to make a personal call?”

  Shona flushed. She hated the way Hetty always seemed to creep up on her. “It was just a quick call,” she said defensively.

  “Who to?”

  Oh, for the courage to tell her to mind her own business. But Hetty was the chief librarian and had the power to sack, and jobs were scarce in Braikie.

  “Just to that policeman, Dick Fraser. He entertained me to dinner and I have invited him and Mr. Macbeth to dinner at my place on Sunday evening.”

  “Then you’d better invite me as well,” said Hetty. “He’ll expect to see me and he’ll be right disappointed if I’m not there.”

  Shona decided to serve as little alcohol as possible. Hetty was apt to get—well—frisky if she had too much to drink.

  Hamish said he would go to Shona’s with Dick, and Dick was relieved. He felt that the presence of Hamish would stop him from making a fool of himself.

  And Hamish was glad to have something to distract him from worrying about the break-in he planned on Monday.

  Before he left, Jimmy rang him to say that Katerina’s husband had been cha
rged with assault, fined, and bound over to keep the peace. Hamish was somehow relieved that episode was over. It had reminded him that his famous intuition could be fallible.

  Dressed in their best and carrying a good bottle of Merlot, Hamish and Dick arrived at Shona’s home on the Sunday. It was as Dick remembered it, except this time the air was full of the smell of scorched food and Shona looked near to tears.

  “It was to be duck à l’orange,” she wailed. “I left it in the oven too long. Hetty’s not here yet but she will sneer at me. Oh, how kind of you to bring wine, but it’s not a good idea to let Hetty have too much.”

  “Lead me to the kitchen,” said Dick. “I’m a dab hand at putting things together. There’s a wee bit o’ a gale blowing, so open the kitchen door and let the smell out. What have we here? Oh, look! You’ve a whole pack o’ spaghetti.” He opened the fridge. “And you’ve got a packet o’ mince and tomatoes. Off you go, lassie, and leave it all to me. Wait a bit. I see you’ve got a carton o’ tomato juice as well. I’ll pour it into four glasses wi’ a bit o’ Worcestershire sauce and tell Hetty it’s a Bloody Mary.”

  The doorbell rang. “That’ll be Hetty,” said Shona. “Dick, I don’t know how to thank you.”

  “Just keep Hetty out of the kitchen.”

  Hamish was wondering if Shona had some sort of private income. Her apartment was the bottom half of a large Victorian villa. The living room contained a few good pieces of furniture. A coal fire burned on the hearth. A table was set for four at the bay window.

  Shona ushered Hetty in, and Hamish rose to his feet. Hetty was wearing a long black velvet gown. Her heavy make-up was dead white and her thin mouth a slash of scarlet. She was wearing heavy false eyelashes.

  “Why, it’s the famous Hamish Macbeth,” she said. She looked at him coyly. “Or should I say, the infamous Hamish Macbeth.”

  Dick bustled in with a tray of the Virgin Marys. “Bloody Marys all round,” he said.

  “Thanks, Dick,” said Hamish. “This’ll be my ration for the evening. I’m driving.”

  “I’ll just see to the dinner,” said Shona. “But cheers, everybody.”

  Hamish took a sip of his drink and realised immediately that there was no vodka in it.

  Dick and Shona went off to the kitchen. “Sit down beside me,” said Hetty, patting a place on the sofa next to her.

  Hamish did as he was bid. “Have you got over your loss?” he asked.

  “Oh, poor Cyril. We were to be married, you know.”

  “Were you going to move to Strathbane?” asked Hamish.

  “We were going to travel the world,” said Hetty. Then she let out a little scream. “There’s a cockroach in my drink.”

  Hamish took it from her and peered at it. “It’s one of your eyelashes,” he said.

  Hetty let out a squawk and took a little mirror out of her handbag. She turned away from Hamish and plucked off the remaining false eyelash. “Have my drink,” said Hamish. “I’ve hardly touched it.”

  “Except with your lips,” said Hetty with a leer.

  “So,” said Hamish, handing her his glass and putting her discarded glass on the floor at his feet, “how on earth were you going to afford to travel the world on a policeman’s pay?”

  “Cyril told me he was about to come into a lot of money.”

  “Where was it coming from?”

  “I suppose some relative was due to die and leave him a lot of money. He was crazy about me, but men usually are.”

  “I thought he dumped you,” said Hamish.

  “Not really,” said Hetty. “Let’s talk about something else. You’re not married, are you?”

  “Not yet.”

  Hetty edged closer to him on the sofa. “There’s always hope,” she said. “Every cloud has a silver lining.”

  “How true,” said Hamish. “And it never rains but it pours. It’s an ill wind that…”

  “Are you taking the piss?” demanded Hetty.

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

  “Take your places at the table,” came Shona’s voice. “First course coming up.”

  Dick carried in a tray with plates of smoked salmon. Shona followed him carrying a bottle of white wine wrapped in a cloth. She looked windswept, having fled out the back and round to the supermarket to buy bottles of non-alcoholic wine.

  Hetty began to look sulky. Where was the buzz from alcohol that she had been looking forward to?

  She stood up abruptly. “I’ve left my cigarettes in the car. Back in a minute.”

  Hetty went out to her car. She had bought a bottle of vodka earlier that day. She sat in the driver’s seat, wrenched open the top, and took a long satisfying swig. She downed another one and began to feel irresistible. As she eased her way out of the car, she began to think of Hamish as a marital prospect.

  “Get your cigarettes?” asked Hamish when Hetty rejoined them.

  “Silly me,” said Hetty, sitting down and patting him on the knee. “They were in my handbag all along.”

  Why is it that people think vodka doesn’t smell? thought Hamish.

  “Tell me about yourself,” said Hetty, her prominent eyes fastened on Hamish’s face.

  “You’ve hardly touched your salmon,” said Hamish.

  “I don’t really like smoked salmon,” said Hetty. “I’ll save my appetite for the next course.” She downed her glass of wine in one great gulp.

  “I’ll get the next course,” said Shona. Dick rose to his feet as well.

  Hetty waggled a finger at Dick. “Naughty, naughty! You look so grim I do believe you’re jealous.”

  Her narcissism was amazing, reflected Hamish. She probably had not even noticed that Shona was a very pretty girl.

  “This is not my idea of cooking,” said Dick, twisting the lid off a jar of Bolognese sauce that he had told Shona to get in the supermarket. “But it would ha’ taken too long to do the real thing. I’ll just add the tomatoes and chopped mushrooms and garlic to make it seem a bit mair homemade.”

  He deftly drained the spaghetti onto four deep dishes, put a generous helping of the sauce on each plate, and loaded them onto a serving trolley with a bottle of red non-alcoholic wine and a bowl of grated Parmesan cheese.

  As they entered the room, Hamish leapt to his feet, shouting, “A rat! There’s a rat crawling up my leg!”

  Hamish was well aware that the “rat” was in fact Hetty’s stockinged foot.

  Hetty had withdrawn her foot and now looked sulkily under the table. “It’s your imagination,” she said. “There’s nothing there.”

  Hamish sat down. “Well, if I feel the beastie again, I’ll stamp on it and break its back.”

  Hetty stared in suppressed fury at the plate of spaghetti Bolognese in front of her. She did not hate the taste. She hated the fact that she had never mastered the dexterity of eating it properly. Besides, the brief euphoria engendered by those two swigs of vodka had ebbed away.

  She rose from the table. “Excuse me,” she said.

  “You know where the bathroom is, Hetty,” said Shona.

  “I need something from my car.”

  “It’s a cold night,” said Hamish maliciously, because he knew exactly what it was that Hetty wanted. “Tell me what it is, give me your keys, and I’ll get it for you.”

  “No!” shouted Hetty and slammed out of the room. Once at her car, she seized the vodka bottle, then hurried back into the house and through to the bathroom at the back. She sat down on the lid of the pan, opened the bottle, and proceeded to drink.

  Soon Hetty could feel the alcohol surging through her veins like elixir. She finished the vodka, opened the bathroom window, and hurled the empty bottle into the garden. She was passing the kitchen on her way back when she saw a bottle of brandy lying next to the coffee cups on the kitchen table. The temptation was too much. She poured herself a large tumbler of brandy and downed it.

  Shona was just saying nervously, “She’s been away an awfully long time. I’d better go and look f
or her,” when Hetty appeared in the doorway, looked blindly around, and then collapsed unconscious on the floor.

  “We’d better get her to the hospital and get her pumped out. She’s done it this time,” said Hamish. “Phone for an ambulance, Dick. I don’t want to take her myself. In the meantime, we’d better walk her up and down.”

  Fortunately the ambulance arrived after only five minutes—fortunate because Hetty showed no signs of regaining consciousness.

  They followed the ambulance in the Land Rover to Braikie hospital. They didn’t return to Shona’s flat until Hetty’s stomach was pumped out and they were told she would be all right.

  It had transpired to Hamish’s relief that this was not the first time that Hetty had been taken to hospital in similar circumstances, because he was sure Hetty would try to put the blame on Shona.

  Shona looked so worried and distressed that Dick cursed Hetty with all his heart.

  “If you ever feel like inviting us to dinner again,” he said, “make sure she doesn’t know about it.”

  Monday evening arrived and with it a nervous Angela Brodie escorted by her husband to watch her TV appearance.

  Dick settled them in the living room with drinks and snacks. “Here comes your big moment, Angela,” he said, switching on the television.

  After a long noisy advertisement for sofas on sale—“are sofas never not on sale,” muttered Hamish—film of guests arriving at the banquet appeared. No Angela. Then green room interviews with the winners, but the interview with Angela appeared to have been cut. More sofa advertisements, followed by a long introductory speech by the head of the sofa company. The camera panned occasionally round the guests but Angela was always out of range. She leaned forward in her chair. Surely, they would feature Hamish’s impromptu presentation. But nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  “Bastards!” said Dick.

  “Never mind, Angela,” said Hamish. “You’re a real writer, unlike the award winners.”

  “It’ll teach me never to waste money again,” said Angela. “I feel like an absolute fool.”