by M C Beaton
“I havenae dared touch the machine since I stole it.”
Hamish was in a quandary. He did not think that Angus had murdered John. But if he took him in for assault and the theft of that computer, he knew Angus might also be charged with the murder. The police would figure that anyone who could attack a policeman must be a murderer as well.
“When the police asked you where you were on the evening of the murder,” asked Hamish, “what did you say?”
“The truth. I was at the writing class with the others when Perry burst in with the news John was dead.”
“And before that?”
“Here. In this room. I’ve got an old typewriter. It’s over there in the closet. I was using that to write.”
“Can Mrs. Dunne confirm that?”
“She was out all day, and no one else is staying here at the moment.”
Hamish was silent for a few moments. Then he said, “I hate you for putting me in the hospital.”
“I’m awfy sorry.”
Hamish took a deep breath. What he was about to suggest could lose him his job and get him charged with police obstruction if it ever came to light.
“Have you any holidays owing?”
“Two weeks.”
“Take them now. I want you to come to the police station and work hard at getting into that hard drive. If you speak about it to anyone, then you are going to go to prison and I am going to lose my job.”
Angus wiped his tear-streaked face with his cuff. “You’d do that for me?”
“Laddie, if you weren’t any use to me, I’d have you off to Strathbane so fast your feet wouldn’t touch the ground. I need to know what’s in that computer. Pack up a bag in the morning and report to the police station. I’ll take the computer. I’ll need to put an extra lock on the kitchen door and take away the spare key. Too many people just walk in. I’ll put a lock on the office door as well. Don’t answer the telephone and don’t come out of the office until you’re sure I’m alone.”
“Thanks. I don’t know how – ”
“Oh, just shut up, you daft nerd. Give me the computer.”
Angus went and lifted it out. He wrapped it in a plastic shopping bag. Hamish rose and tucked it under his arm.
“Nine o’clock tomorrow,” he ordered.
∨ Death of a Bore ∧
10
He thought he saw an Albatross
That fluttered round the lamp:
He looked again and found it was
A penny postage stamp.
“You’d best be getting home,” he said,
“The nights are very damp.”
♦
—Lewis Carroll
Matthew felt happy as a small boat they had chartered chugged out through the oily waters of Strathbane docks towards Standing Stones Island. Not for the first time, he wondered why anyone would want to become a policeman. All those dreary interviews, over and over again.
He could see Freda was enjoying herself as well, her pointed face lit up with excitement.
“Thank goodness it’s calm,” she shouted to him over the noise of the engine. “I’m sure it can get very rough out here.”
Huge stars blazed above them. One never notices stars in the city, thought Matthew.
The island loomed up bathed in bright moonlight. It was really just a small rocky hill but with a circle of standing stones on its crest.
“I’ll be back for ye in the morning,” said the boatman.
“Don’t be late,” urged Freda. “I’ve got to be at work at nine.”
Matthew had an uneasy feeling that he shouldn’t have paid the whole fare in advance. The boatman was a surly, criminal-looking fellow. What if he didn’t come back for them?
Too late now, he thought as he and Freda hoisted rucksacks onto their shoulders and climbed up to the ring of stones, which looked like great black fingers pointing up to the beauty of the night sky.
After they had found a slab of masonry to sit on and were drinking Freda’s contribution of coffee and Matthew’s of whisky, they chatted about this and that until they fell silent.
Matthew began to wonder what on earth he could write. And then he began to feel uneasy. He had never considered himself oversensitive or imaginative, but he began to feel the island didn’t want them there. It was as if dislike were emanating from the very ground.
“I read up on this place,” he said, breaking the silence. “It used to be joined to the land.”
Freda shivered and edged closer to him. “It’s getting colder.”
“Why don’t we get into our sleeping bags and have another drink?” suggested Matthew.
“Good idea.”
They snuggled into their sleeping bags. Matthew could feel that odd dislike strengthening into hatred as he sat beside Freda, wrapped in his sleeping bag. “Do you feel anything odd?” he asked Freda.
“Like what?”
Matthew gave an uneasy laugh. “As if this place hates us?”
“There’s something creepy,” said Freda. “What was that?” She clutched Matthew.
“What? What is it?”
“I saw something white out of the corner of my eye.”
“Probably a gull. They never seem to go to sleep.”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, hell.” Matthew took another slug of whisky. “The wind’s getting up.”
Freda looked up at the sky. Long fingers of clouds were beginning to stream across the night sky, obliterating the stars.
I can’t write about any of this, thought Matthew. I can’t write about feelings. If I write that the island hated us, the news editor will suggest a visit to the nearest rehab.
“Do you think,” said Freda in a trembling voice, “that it might be a good idea if we just cuddled up together and went to sleep?”
“This stone we’re sitting on,” said Matthew, shifting uneasily. “Do you think it might have been some sort of altar?”
“I tell you what,” said Freda. “Let’s get out of this circle and camp on the beach.”
They struggled out of their sleeping bags and then hauled their belongings down to the beach. Matthew shone his torch and found a flat area of springy turf.
“This’ll do. Let’s open up the sleeping bags and make a double blanket.”
Soon they lay clasped in each other’s arms as close as lovers. That odd feeling of hate had gone.
The area of grass they were lying on was shielded by an outcrop of rock. Lulled by whisky and the sound of the sea, they fell asleep.
Matthew was awakened by Freda shaking his shoulder. “Wake up!” she hissed. “Listen!”
They could hear faint cries above the steady throb of an engine. “If that’s a boat, maybe they can take us into Strathbane,” said Freda.
“I’d better have a look first.”
Matthew made his way up to the standing stones. He could see the rights of a large boat of some kind out to sea. He nipped back to Freda. “I’ve got some night-vision binoculars in my rucksack.”
“What is it?”
“Nothing supernatural. A ship out to sea.”
Matthew found his binoculars and went back to the standing stones. He focussed the binoculars on the large boat. He now saw a smaller fishing boat riding alongside it, rising and falling on the waves. Packages were being unloaded onto the fishing boat.
Maybe it’s drugs, he thought. Maybe I’ve got a story, after all.
A tap on the shoulder made him yelp with terror. He turned round. “Freda! You nearly frightened me to death.”
“We’re safe!” said Freda excitedly. “There’s a boat on the other side coming out to the island.”
“I think they’re drug runners,” said Matthew. “We’ve got to get back to our stuff and hide it and ourselves.”
Freda clutched him and whimpered. “I’m terrified. I want to go home.”
“Shhh! I’ll look after you. Come on. We’ve got to hide our stuff before that other boat gets here.”
They cre
pt down to their sleeping bags and stuffed them back in the rucksacks. “If we hide behind the standing stones, they won’t see us,” said Matthew. “The wind’s gone down a bit, so we’ll get off all right in the morning.”
They made their way back to the stone circle. Matthew covered their rucksacks with grass and seaweed. He took out his mobile phone and dialled Elspeth’s number.
“I’m on Standing Stones Island,” he said. He told her about the boats. “I think they’re drug running. Tell the police at Strathbane and cover the story from your end.”
Elspeth phoned Hamish Macbeth.
“I may not get to Strathbane in time if that’s where they’re headed, but I’ll call headquarters and they can get the coastguard out,” said Hamish.
Matthew and Freda stood behind one of the pillars and listened. They heard the boat Freda had seen and then the sound of the other boat circling the island to join it.
“Damn,” muttered Matthew. “I must see what they’re doing.”
“Don’t leave me,” pleaded Freda.
He gave her a quick kiss. “Just stay here and you’ll be fine.”
He moved from the cover of one stone to another until he was looking down at the half-ruined jetty where they had landed. He raised his binoculars to his eyes. They seemed to be sharing out the packages. He concentrated on them.
Cigarettes!
Well, it wasn’t drugs, but it was something.
Freda leaned against a standing stone and wished with all her heart that Matthew would come back. And then she heard weird singing: an eerie chant that rose and fell. Her nerve broke, and she ran to where Matthew was hiding, shouting, “Help! Help!”
Matthew whirled round. “Freda, for God’s sake, keep your voice down.”
“I heard singing,” she said. “Awful ghostly singing.”
“One of the men’s playing Gaelic tunes on the radio.”
A powerful torch shone on them and a brutal voice ordered, “Get your hands up!”
Rough hands dragged them down to the jetty. The men all had their faces covered with black ski masks.
“I am a reporter with the Daily Bugle,” said Matthew desperately.
The leader, or the man who appeared to be the leader, stepped forward. “Get them aboard. We’ll tip them over the side when we’re far enough out.”
Guns were shoved in their backs and they were propelled aboard one of the boats.
They were tied up and placed side by side on the deck. Freda was sobbing with fear.
“Do we weigh them down with something?” a voice asked.
“No, they’ll be dead of cold, and they can’t swim with their arms and legs tied.”
“Freda,” whispered Matthew, “if we ever get out of this alive, I’ll make it up to you. I can’t tell them about the police knowing, or they might just shoot us.”
“They’re going to drown us anyway,” wailed Freda.
“Right,” they heard the leader say. “This is far enough. Throw them over the side.”
Hands dragged them to their feet.
And then one of them shouted, “Coastguard!”
The boat was suddenly bathed in blinding white light from a helicopter overhead, and across the waves towards them surged two police boats and two coastguard vessels.
“Do we shoot it out, guv?” asked one.
“No, chuck all the guns over the side. Untie that pair. They’ll try to do us for attempted murder, but we can all swear we were just trying to frighten them.”
“They got James’s boat as well.”
“They can’t give us much for running cigarettes. Relax.”
♦
Elspeth and Hamish arrived just as Freda and Matthew were being helped ashore.
Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle came driving along the dock. “Well done, you two. Now, if you will come to police headquarters and make a statement…”
“Can Hamish Macbeth take our statements in Lochdubh?” begged Matthew. “Freda is in shock.”
“Do you want to go to the hospital, Miss Garrety?”
“No,” sobbed Freda. “I w-want to g-go home.”
“Very well. Macbeth, take them back and send over their statements.”
“Before we go,” said Matthew, “those bastards are going to say they only threatened to drown us to frighten us, but they did mean to kill us. We heard them.”
“Put it in your statement.”
♦
Freda, Matthew, and Elspeth got into the police Land Rover. Hamish had ordered Matthew to leave his car keys with the police, who would drive his car over to the Tommel Castle Hotel in the morning. As they were moving off, Elspeth said, “Stop at the Highlands Hotel on the road out, Hamish.”
“Why?”
“Freda needs to use the Ladies.” She handed Freda a plastic bag. “There you go. Clean knickers and jeans.”
“How did you know?” asked Freda.
Elspeth grinned. “Been there, done that.”
♦
While they waited outside the hotel for Freda, Matthew said, “I’m glad I’ve got something to write.”
“You mean Standing Stones Island was a washout?” asked Elspeth.
“It wasn’t that. It was an eerie place. I felt…This is daft. I felt the island hated us – well, not the island, but the bit in the middle of the standing stones. If I wrote that, they would be asking what I’d been drinking.”
To his surprise, Elspeth said, “I know what you mean. There are parts of Sutherland where people get weird feelings and even see things. The rock up here is the oldest in the world, and any soil is a very thin covering. I sometimes wonder if in a way it records things. But what did you hope to write? I mean, you weren’t actually hoping to see a ghost, were you?”
Matthew gave a reluctant laugh. “I suppose I never really thought beyond the headline. ‘Reporter Matthew Campbell’s Night on the Haunted Island.’”
Freda came out and joined them, and Hamish drove off. “I know you’re both tired,” he said, “but I’d better get your statements as soon as we get back to Lochdubh, and that way you can both have a good night’s sleep.”
“All right,” said Matthew, “but make it quick.”
♦
Before he fell asleep in the safety and comfort of his hotel room, Matthew thought about Freda. He had liked the way she had clung to him. Elspeth would never have done that. He looked forward to seeing her with a feeling of pleasant anticipation.
They had made their statements. He had filed his story, and he knew Elspeth was filing her part in it about her race with Hamish to Strathbane and the activity on the docks.
And to think he had considered the Highlands boring!
♦
Angus arrived at nine in the morning. Hamish, bleary-eyed, let him in. “Are you getting a locksmith round?” asked Angus.
“No, I’ll change them myself. I meant to do it ages ago, and I’ve got locks out in the shed. Make some coffee for both of us, and then I’ll clear the desk in the office for you. Just in case my boss arrives and wants to go in there, I’ll tell her loudly that I’ve got something wrong with the police computer and you’re fixing it for me, and you hide the Heppel one.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll clear the desk now and then shave and get my uniform on. I’ve a feeling the Lady of the Cast-iron Liver will be here shortly.”
“Drink a lot, does she?”
“Like a fish. Make coffee.”
Hamish moved the police computer to one side of the desk and unlocked the drawer where he had hidden John’s laptop, and put it on the desk. Then he showered and shaved and got into his uniform.
He had drunk his coffee, walked and fed Lugs, and changed the locks before Heather arrived. He had hoped the excitement of catching the cigarette smugglers might have kept her away a bit longer, but there she was, rattling at the handle of the locked kitchen door.
He unlocked it and let her in.
“That was good work,” she said,
shrugging off her coat and handing it to him. “Some members of that gang have been in prison already for running drugs. But cigarettes are so expensive in this country that a lot of the drug dealers have gone over to smuggling cigarettes. But that’s not why I’m here. The toxicology report revealed that Patty’s body contained traces of a heavy narcotic. Also, there’s now some forensic gobbledygook, which comes down to the fact that she could not have slit her wrists herself. There is no report from the computer expert in Glasgow yet. So I’m off back to Inverness. Got any whisky?”
Hamish glanced at the clock. It was eleven in the morning. He lifted down a bottle from the cupboard and a glass and put both on the table.
“Why are you leaving for Inverness, ma’am?”
“I’m not needed any more. Blair’s suspension has been cancelled. Now it has been established that Alice Patty was murdered and not driven to suicide, he’s been exonerated. It’s a pity. We could have made a good team, Hamish.”
More like master and servant, thought Hamish.
“Would you consider a move to Inverness?”
“It’s kind of you to suggest it, ma’am, but I’m more use here.”
She drained her glass and poured herself another hefty measure. Hamish watched the diminishing whisky sourly. I’ve a good mind to put another bottle on my expenses and say it was for entertaining her, he thought.
She drained that glass and stood up. “Coat!”
Hamish fetched her coat and helped her into it. “Well, I’m off,” said Heather. She kissed him on the cheek. “Be seeing you.”
“I don’t know which one is worse,” said Hamish to Lugs after she had gone, “her or Blair.”
Then he realised with a feeling of intense relief that the murder of Alice Patty would shift the focus away from the village.
The phone in the office rang. Hamish unlocked the door, shouting, “Don’t answer that.”
“I wasn’t going to,” muttered Angus.
Hamish picked up the phone. Blair’s guttural Glasgow accent sounded down the line. “Get out there and interview that lot in the village.”
“But surely the murder of Alice Patty means that one of the television people is probably the culprit?”
“I mean the television lot, you stupid teuchter. Haven’t you poked your nose outside that police station of yours? They’re filming there today. Jimmy Anderson and some police are there already. I’m too busy winding up a smuggling racket I exposed.”