Hamish MacBeth 15 (1999) - Death of an Addict

by M C Beaton

  “And do you know why?” he shouted.

  “Tell us!” urged the congregation.

  “My sexual orientation was wrong, wrong, wrong!”

  “Ah.” A sigh of satisfaction came from the congregation. Back to good old sex at last.

  “I was locked in an unhappy marriage. I could not bring myself to touch her. She repulsed me. I prayed to the Lord. My brain cleared. I was gay. I would not admit that before, even to myself. My black cloud lifted and I saw the light.” Sanders smiled fondly down at Hamish, who glared at him.

  “My brother here will come with me and I will explain in private how he might be helped.” He stretched down his hand. “Come, brother Hamish.”

  “Yes, go,” cried the congregation in a state of ecstasy.

  Blushing as red as his hair, Hamish allowed Sanders to lead him out of the church.

  “Well, hullo, sailor,” said Hamish bitterly.

  “How else was I to get a private word with you?” said Sanders.

  “So you can let go of my hand.”

  “Such a nice hand,” said Sanders, patting it. “You should see your face.”

  “How did you know they would just let me walk out with you?” asked Hamish.

  “Easy, I’d dropped in there before, undercover. Sex, always sex. They wank off just talking about it. So I knew if I got them back on their usual track, they wouldn’t mind.”

  “So what’s this all about?” asked Hamish. “How did you get on with Felicity?”

  Sanders told him as they walked down towards the town.

  Hamish felt depressed. “So all that does is add evidence to the fact that Tommy did kill himself by accident.”

  “Looks that way, and I think you’re wasting time in that damn church.”

  “Maybe something there,” said Hamish. “Maybe they show blue films?”

  “So what? Have you seen television lately? Even the BBC shows everyone screwing everything. Turn to the nature programmes for a bit of relief, and they’ve got animals shagging.”

  “Are you gay?” asked Hamish abruptly. “Not that it matters. I’m just curious to learn if the hidebound dinosaurs of Strathbane police have moved into the twentieth century.”

  “No, but it was the best thing I could think of to get you out of there.”

  “So what now?” asked Hamish. “I suppose that’s that. I might have a go at just one more lead.”

  “What’s that?”

  Hamish told him about the two supposed students that Tommy had lodged with.

  “I doubt if you’ll find them still there,” said Sanders. “Worth a try all the same.”

  Hamish looked at him sharply. “You mean you still think there was something funny about Tommy’s death?”

  “Yes. It’s a gut feeling.”

  “So are you going to come with me to see these two former friends of Tommy’s?”

  “No, I go on a lot of drug raids. They might be a couple I busted.”

  “Then what about the people in the church, for heavens sake?”

  “I checked them out as they went in. Nothing sinister there.”

  “Oh, my,” moaned Hamish. “I’m working at that church for nothing.”

  “You mean they aren’t paying you?”

  “Aye, they’re paying me, and I better look noble if I stay to the end of the week and put the money in the collection box because if headquarters gets a wind of me taking money, I’ll be out on my ear.”

  “I’ll leave you here,” said Sanders, stopping by his car. “I parked well away from the church.”

  “It’s an ordinary car, not a police car,” said Hamish. “Why did you do that?”

  “I wanted to go on foot for a bit. Gave me a better chance to suss out the people going into the church. Are you going to see these blokes in your capacity as police officer?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you look a damn sight too clean. Take my advice and muck yourself up a bit. And let me know if you even get a whisper.” He took out his notebook. “I’ll write down my home address and number. You may get into trouble.” He tore off the piece of paper and handed it to Hamish.

  Hamish waved to him and walked off into the night.

  What a smelly place Strathbane was, he reflected as he headed down to the old docks where he knew Glenfields housing estate to be. Smells of gas and sour earth and cheap cooking.

  He wished he hadn’t shaved that morning. He wished he hadn’t pressed his shirt. He was too old to pose as a student.

  He walked through the estate until he found Kinnock Tower. The lift wasn’t working. Wearily he began to climb the stairs. The walls of the staircase were covered in graffiti and the stairs themselves in garbage. The whole estate had been due for demolition for some time but kept being put off, because temporary accommodation would have to be found for the inhabitants and then new houses built and there was no money for that, perhaps because the councillors of Strathbane had a propensity to travel to exotic places en masse on “fact-finding” missions, and taking their wives with them, and all at the taxpayers’ expense.

  The flat he was looking for was near the top of the building. He trudged along until he came to 244. A blast of stereo sound came through the thin door. He rang the bell, and then, reflecting that the bell probably didn’t work, knocked at the glass panel of the door, which had been broken at one time and stuck together again with sticky tape. Still no reply. He bent down and shouted through the letter box, “Anybody home?”

  The door was suddenly jerked open.

  A small, fat, piggy man stood there. He was bare to the waist. A snake was tattooed around one arm. Bob, thought Hamish.

  Bob’s eyes dropped to Hamish’s feet. Hamish was glad he had put on an old pair of trainers instead of his regulation boots, which he often wore even when he was in plain clothes.

  “Whit d’ye want?” demanded Bob.

  Hamish leaned indolently against the doorjamb. “I heard I could get some good stuff here.”

  Bob thrust past him and peered up and down. “Come in,” he said.

  The outside door opened straight into a living room. The noise from the stereo was so loud it seemed to make the thin walls vibrate. There was little furniture, beanbags on the floor, one with a knife slash in it and the contents spilling out onto the bare boards. The room was littered with empty Diet Coke cans. Hamish had never seen so many.

  “Wait here,” said Bob.

  He went into another room. There came sounds of an altercation. Then silence. Then Bob came back, followed by a tall young man with long unkempt hair and a straggly moustache. Angus, thought Hamish.

  “What stuff?” demanded Angus.

  “Heroin,” said Hamish.

  “Oh, yeah? What makes you think we’ve got any drugs.”

  “You haven’t,” said Hamish insolently. “Not in the quantity I need to buy.”

  Hamish knew impersonation came better from the inside. His very sneering insolence, the contempt in his eyes as he looked them up and down, he knew was a better disguise than if he had tried to dress up in the character of a drug baron.

  “How much are we talking about here?” demanded Angus.

  “Fifty thousand pounds for starters.”

  “Whit! Show us the money.”

  “Do you think I’d bring that much into a slum like this?” Hamish’s eyes raked over the mess of the room. “I’m moving business to Strathbane and someone told me you two knew the drug scene.”

  “Oh, aye? And just who would that someone be?” demanded Bob, who had taken out a large knife and was waving it about.

  “Put that bread knife away, you silly wee man,” said Hamish.

  “Who re you calling a silly wee man?” roared Bob. “I’ll cut your face.”

  Hamish stared at him unmovingly.

  “Put the blade down,” snapped Angus. “So, big man,” he said to Hamish, “which syndicate are you from?”

  “As if I would tell you,” jeered Hamish. “Just get me in touch
and there’s money in it for you.”

  “How much money are we talking about?”

  “A hundred for each of you. You get me the contact and you get your money.”

  “Where do we get in touch?”

  “You don’t. Name a place and time and I’ll be there.”

  “Wait a bit.” Angus jerked his head at Bob and both went into the other room and shut the door behind them.

  When they had gone, Hamish forced himself to maintain his role of big-time drug dealer. He knew if he relaxed the act for one moment, he would feel frightened and the fright would show.

  There was an opened packet of cigarettes lying among the debris of Coke cans and half-eaten food in a corner of the floor. He stared at it hungrily, all the old longing for a cigarette flooding his body.

  But just when he felt himself weakening, the door opened and Bob and Angus came back in.

  “Took your time, didn’t you?” demanded Hamish.

  “Lachie’s. Do you know Lachie’s?”

  “The disco.”

  “That’s the one. Be there Thursday at nine o’clock.”

  “Okay. I’ll be seeing you.”

  Hamish walked quickly to the door, nodded to them and walked outside, shutting it firmly behind him. He then stood a little way away from the door so that his silhouette could not be seen against the frosted glass and listened. “Follow him,” he heard Angus say.

  Hamish took off like a hare, running lightly on his trainers. He darted down the stairs and then along a corridor leading to the flats below. He pressed against the wall and waited until he heard Bob clattering down the stairs in pursuit. He waited until Bob’s footsteps had faded away and then he made his way leisurely down the stairs, his mind in a turmoil.

  What had he done? How on earth could he follow it through? What on earth had possessed him?

  He would need to get hold of Sanders fast.

  He made his way cautiously along the dark empty nighttime streets, always listening for the sound of pursuit. In the centre of the town, he found a phone box and dialled Sanders’s number.

  “Hamish,” said Sanders crossly. “What now?”

  “I need to see you. Now,” said Hamish. “I’m in a mess.”

  “Okay, come round. Get to police headquarters, go on along Strathie Street past four turnings on the left going north, and the fifth is Tummock Drive.”

  “I’ll be as fast as I can,” said Hamish, and rang off.

  Sanders listened to Hamish in silence and then said, “There’s two things you can do, Hamish. One, go back to Lochdubh and forget about the whole thing. Two, come with me to police headquarters and let’s see if we can follow this through.”

  “Blair will have my guts for garters.”

  “Blair’s away for a week. Superintendent Daviot’ll need to be in on this. You’d better stay the night and come in with me in the morning.”

  Wondering what they were making of his absence from the church, Hamish endured the wrath of Jimmy Anderson the next morning. Anderson howled that Hamish had lost his mind. Sanders said quietly that they had never really nailed a good drug bust and if Hamish could lead them to where the supplies were coming in, it would be a marvellous coup. Jimmy Anderson sourly said they should put the whole matter before Chief Superintendent Daviot. Hamish endured another gruelling session and then was told to go back to the church and maintain his cover until they got in touch with him. Until then, he was not to be seen at police headquarters again.

  “Where the hell have you been?” demanded Barry when Hamish arrived looking haggard and unshaven.

  “I talked most of the night with that fellow. He was most helpful.”

  “I’m docking the time from your wages,” said Barry. “Get to it. Any more days off and you’re finished here.”

  Tired as he was, Hamish was glad of the work to take his mind off his troubles. He had gone to see Bob and Angus with no clear idea of what to say. Whatever had possessed him not only to tell that monstrous lie, but to say that he could come up with fifty thousand pounds?

  ♦

  He worked until just before the evening service was due to take place and put away his paint pots and soaked his brushes and then got in Sean’s old car and drove to Lochdubh. After he had soaked in a hot bath and changed his clothes, he began to feel better. He had not been fired. As he had pointed out, he was doing the investigation in his own free time. They could either go ahead with it or tell him to stop being a maverick and never, ever do anything like that again without consulting his superiors.

  There was a knock at the door. It was Angela, the doctor’s wife. “Your sheep are all right and your hens are fed and locked up for the night.”

  “Thank you,” said Hamish. “Come in.”

  “I can’t. I’m rushing. You look awful. Been out on the town?”

  “Aye, you could say that,” said Hamish.

  After he had said goodbye to her, he locked up the police station and drove off towards Strathbane. It was a cold, crisp night and great stars blazed overhead. He drove steadily until he saw the orange blot on the sky which meant he was approaching Strathbane.

  He parked outside the church and walked around the back to the kitchen door. There were lights on in the kitchen. He stopped and then went forward softly and put his ear to the kitchen door.

  Barry’s voice sounded sharp and clear. “Betty Jones hasn’t paid up. She’s in arrears.”

  “Then take her pension book,” came his wife’s voice.

  “She won’t give it up.”

  “Threatened her with the wrath of God, did you?” sneered his wife.

  “Didn’t have the slightest effect. She says she can’t pay.”

  “We need some muscle on this. Trust you to employ a halfwit.”

  “I wanted the church painted,” said Barry peevishly. “We employ muscle, we’ll have to pay for it.”

  Hamish drew softly away from the door. So the Owens were loan sharks, using the church as a front. Lend money at high interest and if they didn’t pay, take their pension book or dole payment book. He was about to retreat and go back to police headquarters and report what he had heard. But he had been told to stay at his job at the church until he was contacted.

  He went back to the car, let in the brake and cruised down the hill a little without switching on the engine. Then he switched it on and turned and drove back up to the church, revving the engine before he stopped and this time getting out and slamming the door loudly. Then he walked up to the kitchen door, whistling loudly, and opened it.

  The Owens were sitting there over cups of coffee. Mrs. Owen had a large bag at her feet which she zipped shut when Hamish walked in. No doubt where she had shoved the books, thought Hamish.

  “Come in, lad, and the Lord be with you,” said Barry unctuously. “We were just leaving.”

  Hamish tried to look as vacant-eyed as possible until they had gone, for Dominica kept throwing him nasty little looks.

  At least he had something on them. How horrible they were! Now all he had to do was wait until headquarters managed to get in touch with him.

  He was working busily on Wednesday, wondering all the while if the powers that be had decided to let the whole thing drop. It was a blustery, windy day and he had left the church door standing open to dry the paint. He had reached ground level of one of the walls and was bending down to fill in a bit he had missed when his sixth sense told him he was being watched.

  He straightened up slowly and turned round. A woman of about his own age, thirty-something, stood there. She had thick black hair tied at the nape of her neck with a black ribbon. She was wearing a tailored suit and flat shoes. She had an oval face, large brown eyes and a generous mouth.

  “What can I do for you?” asked Hamish.

  The woman looked around. “Can we get out of here for a bit? We need to talk somewhere private.”

  Hamish glanced at his watch. “It’s just about lunch-time.”

  “Then we’ll have lunch.�
��

  They walked a good bit away from the church before she stopped by a small car. “Get in,” she said, “and we’ll go into the centre of town.”

  They had driven a few streets when she said, “I gather you will have guessed I am here to brief you.”

  “Are you somebody’s secretary?”

  “I am Detective Inspector Chater.”

  “Sorry, ma’am.”

  “And that was a sexist remark if ever there was one.”

  “This,” said Hamish, waving an expansive hand, “is sexist country. You cannae be from Strathbane.”

  “I have been brought up from Glasgow. Don’t talk until I negotiate this bloody awful one-way system.”

  She parked at last in the private car park of the Grand Hotel. Any hotel called the Grand conjures up visions of Victorian or Edwardian elegance, but this one was pure Strathbane: a square, modern building decorated in the height of geek-chic, plastic and vulgar and pretentious.

  The dining room was fairly empty. She demanded, and got, a table in a secluded corner.

  They ordered from a huge menu filled with glorious descriptions of crackling this and fresh that, and sizzling the other. Hamish ordered fish and chips—“Sea-fresh haddock in golden crispy batter and pommes frites”—and she ordered steak and a baked potato—“Prime cut of Angus with floury baked potato and lashings of fresh Scottish butter.”

  Detective Inspector Chater surveyed Hamish curiously. “You are a little better than I expected.”

  “What did you expect?”

  “You don’t look as stupid as I expected.”

  Hamish raised his eyebrows.

  She clasped neat little hands with well-manicured and unpolished nails on the table.

  “These are the facts as they were given to me. You suspect there is something fishy in the death of a junkie, even though it seems a perfectly straightforward overdose. So you take leave, take a job in some weird church and then go calling on two of the dead man’s former flatmates. Once there, for God knows what mad reason, you pose as a drug baron and say you’ve got fifty thousand pounds to pay for heroin. Instead of sticking a knife in you or saying they didn’t know what you were talking about, this unlovely pair—we’ve checked on them—who do not even have a record, promptly play your game.” Her eyes took in his outfit of old sweater, frayed shirt and paint-stained trousers. “My guess is that they were playing games with you. How on earth could anyone take you for a drug baron?”