Hamish Macbeth 19 (2003) - Death of a Village

by M C Beaton

  “He was small, ferrety. I remember,” said Mr. Teller, excited. “He was wearing a short-sleeved shirt and he had a snake tattooed on his left arm.”

  “Hair colour?”

  “Maybe dark but his head was shaved. He had a thin face, black eyes, and a long nose.”

  “Clothes?”

  “Like a told you, he had a short-sleeved shirt on, blue it was, and grey trousers.”

  Hamish surveyed the shopkeeper with a shrewd look in his hazel eyes. “I’m puzzled by the state of your cellar floor.”

  “How’s that?”

  “There were no marks in the dust. No signs of dragging—”

  “Well, maybe they just lifted the stuff up.”

  Jimmy Anderson was exuding the impatient vibes of a man dying for a drink.

  “Come on, Hamish,” he said impatiently. “Let forensics get on with it while we go over what we’ve got.”

  Hamish reluctantly followed him over to the pub. “Maybe I’ll nip back and tell those chaps from forensic about that cellar floor.”

  “Och, leave them. They know their job.” Jimmy ordered two double whiskies.

  “Just the one, then,” said Hamish. “I don’t trust that man Teller one bit.”

  Finally he dragged a reluctant Jimmy away from the bar. Mr. Teller was serving a woman with groceries.

  “I think you should close up for the day,” said Hamish.

  Mr. Teller jerked a thumb towards the back shop. “They said it was all right.”

  “Let us through,” said Hamish.

  Mr. Teller lifted the flap on the counter.

  Hamish and Jimmy walked through to the back shop.

  “How’s it going?” Jimmy asked one of the men.

  “Nothing much,” he said. “Looks like a straightforward break-in. Can’t get much outside. There’s gravel there. Nothing but a pair of size eleven footprints at the top of the cellar stairs.”

  “Those are mine,” said Hamish. “But what about the cellar itself, and the stairs? When I looked down, there seemed to be nothing but undisturbed dust.”

  “Then you need your eyes tested, laddie. The thieves swept the place clean and the stairs.”

  “What?” Hamish had a sinking feeling in his stomach.

  “Have a look. We’re finished down there.”

  Hamish went to the cellar door, switched on the light, and walked down the steps. He could see sweeping brush marks in the dust.

  “Those weren’t there before,” he said angrily. “Teller must have done it when you pair were out the back.”

  Hamish retreated wrathfully to the shop, followed by Jimmy. “Why did you sweep the cellar?” he demanded angrily.

  Mr. Teller looked the picture of outraged innocence. “I never did. I went back outside to ask them if they wanted a cup of tea. I am a respectable tradesman and a member of the Rotary club and the Freemasons. I shall be speaking to your superior officer.”

  “Speak all you want,” shouted Hamish. “I’ll have you!”

  “Come on, Hamish.” Jimmy drew him outside the shop. “Back to the bar, Hamish. A dram’ll soothe you down.”

  “I’ve had enough and you’d better not have any more. You’re driving.”

  “One more won’t hurt,” coaxed Jimmy, urging Hamish into the dark interior of the bar. When he had got their drinks, he led Hamish to a corner table. “Now, Hamish, couldn’t you be mistaken? When anyone mentions Freemasons, my heart sinks. The big cheese is a member.” The big cheese was the chief superintendent, Peter Daviot.

  “I’m sure as sure,” said Hamish.

  “So what do you suggest we do if the wee man’s books are in order and tie in with Frog’s records of deliveries?”

  “I don’t know,” fretted Hamish.

  “It’s your word against his.”

  “You’d think the word of a policeman would count for something these days.”

  “Not against a Freemason and a member of the Rotary,” said Jimmy cynically.

  Hamish made up his mind. “I’m off to Frog’s. You can have my drink.”

  Jimmy eyed the whisky longingly. “I should report what you’re doing to Blair.”

  “Leave it a bit.”

  “Okay. But keep in touch. I’ll see if I can sweat Teller a bit. The wonders o’ forensic science, eh?”

  “There’s something up with that lot from Strathbane. It seems to me they’re aye skimping the job because they’ve got a football match to go to or something.”

  Hamish drove to Strathbane after looking up Frog’s in a copy of the Highland and Islands phone book he kept in the Land Rover. Their offices were situated down at the docks, an area of Strathbane that Hamish loathed. The rare summer sunshine might bring out the beauty of the Highland countryside but all it did was make the docks smell worse: a combination of stale fish, rotting vegetables, and what Victorian ladies used to describe as something ‘much worse.’

  The offices had a weather-faded sign above the door: FROG’S WHISKY AND WINE DISTRIBUTORS. He pushed open the door and went in. “Why, Mary,” he exclaimed, recognising the small girl behind the desk, “what are you doing here?”

  Mary Bisset was a resident of Lochdubh, small and pert. Her normally cheeky face, however, wore a harassed look. “I’m a temp, Hamish,” she said. “I cannae get the hang o’ this computer.”

  “Where’s the boss?”

  “Out in the town at some meeting.”

  “Who is he?”

  “Mr. Dunblane.”

  “Not Mr. Frog?”

  “I think there was a Mr. Frog one time or another. Oh, Hamish, what am I to do?”

  “Let me see. Move over.”

  Hamish sat down at the computer and switched it on. Nothing happened. He twisted his lanky form around and looked down. “Mary, Mary, you havenae got the damn thing plugged in.”

  She giggled. Hamish plugged in the computer. “What do you want?”

  “The word processing thingy. I’ve got letters to write.”

  “Before I do that, do you know where he keeps the account books?”

  “In the safe.”

  Hamish’s face fell.

  “But you’re the polis. I suppose it would be all right to open it up for you.”

  “Do you know the combination?”

  “It’s one of thae old·fashioned things. The key’s on the wall with the other keys in the inner office.”

  Hamish went into the inner office. “Where is everyone?” he asked over his shoulder.

  “Tarn and Jerry—they work here—they’ve gone into town with Mr. Dunblane.”

  Hamish grinned. There on a board with other keys and neatly labelled ‘Safe’ was the key he wanted. “Come in, Mary,” he said. “You’d better be a witness to this.”

  Hamish opened the safe. There was a large quantity of banknotes on the lower shelf. On the upper shelf were two large ledgers marked ‘Accounts.’ He took them out and relocked the safe. He sat down at a desk and began to go through them. “Keep a lookout, Mary,” he said, “and scream if you see anyone.”

  “What’s this all about?”

  He grinned at her. “If this works out, I’ll take you out for dinner one evening and tell you.”

  Chief Superintendent Peter Daviot had finished his speech to the Strathbane Businessmen’s Association. He enjoyed being a guest speaker at affairs such as these. But his enjoyment was not to last for long. He had just regained his seat to gratifying applause when his mobile phone rang. He excused himself from the table and went outside to answer it. It was Detective Chief Inspector Blair. “Macbeth’s landed us in the shit,” growled Blair.

  “Moderate your language,” snapped Daviot. “What’s up?”

  “Teller’s shop up in Braikie was broken into and all his booze stolen. Macbeth’s accusing Teller of covering up evidence and Teller is threatening to sue.”

  “Dear me, you’d better get up there and diffuse the situation.”

  “Andersen’s up there.”

  “
Go yourself. This requires the attention of a senior officer. And tell Macbeth to report to me immediately.”

  When Daviot returned to police headquarters, he was told to his surprise that Hamish Macbeth was waiting to see him. “That was quick,” he said to his secretary, Helen. “Where is he?”

  “In your office,” said Helen sourly. She loathed Hamish.

  Daviot pushed open the door and went in. Hamish got to his feet clutching a sheaf of photocopied papers.

  “What’s this all about, Macbeth? I hear there has been a complaint about you.”

  “It’s about Teller’s grocery,” said Hamish. “He claims to have had all his booze stolen, booze that was supplied by Frog’s. These are photocopies of the account books at Frog’s. They are an eye-opener. The last delivery to Teller is recorded in one set of books. But this other set shows five more shopkeepers from all over who claimed insurance and were paid fifty per cent of the insurance money.”

  “How did you come by this?”

  “Dunblane, the boss, and two others were out. I know the temp. She let me into the safe.”

  “Macbeth! You cannot do that without a search warrant!”

  “So I need one now. The temp won’t talk. We’d better move fast.”

  “I sent Blair up to Braikie because Teller was threatening to sue. I’ll issue that search warrant and we’ll take Detective MacNab and two police officers and get round there.”

  It was late evening by the time Hamish Macbeth drove back to Lochdubh. He was a happy, contented man. Blair had returned from Lochdubh in time to hear about the success of the operation. The five other shopkeepers were being rounded up. They had claimed on supposedly stolen stock, taken it themselves, and hidden it. So they gained half the insurance money and still had their stock after they had paid Dunblane.

  That strange half-light of a northern Scottish summer where it never really gets dark bathed the countryside: the gloaming, where, as some of the older people still believed, the fairies lay in wait for the unwary traveller.

  As Hamish opened the police station door, Lugs barked a reproachful welcome. Hamish took the dog out for a walk and then returned to prepare them both some supper. There came a furious knocking at the kitchen door just as he had put Lugs’s food bowl on the floor and was sitting down at the table to enjoy his own supper.

  He opened the door and found himself confronted with the furious figure of Mary Bisset’s mother.

  “You leave my daughter alone, d’ye hear?” she shouted. “She’s only twenty. Find someone your own age.”

  Hamish blinked at her. “Your daughter was of great help in our enquiries into an insurance fraud,” he said. “I couldn’t tell her what it was about but promised to take her out for dinner by way of thanks and tell her then.”

  “Oh, yeah,” she sneered. “Well, romance someone of your own age. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Casanova!”

  And with that she stormed off.

  Hamish slammed the door. Women, he thought. I’m only in my thirties and I’ve just been made to feel like a dirty old man.

  TWO

  The wife was pretty, trifling, childish, weak;

  She could not think, but would not cease to speak.

  —George Crabbe

  Hamish sat down at his computer in the morning to type out a full report of the insurance frauds. His long fingers flew rapidly over the keys. It was still sunny outside and he was anxious to get out and go about his normal business of sloping around and gossiping with the villagers.

  The phone rang. He looked at it reluctantly for a few moments and then picked it up. “Hamish?” said a scared little voice. “It’s me, Bella Comyn.”

  “Morning, Bella. What can I do for you?”

  “I’m frightened, Hamish. I want to leave him but I’m frightened of what he’ll do.”

  “Where is he at the moment?”

  “He’s down at the slaughterhouse in Strathbane.”

  “Give me half an hour and I’ll be over.” Hamish typed busily, finished the report, sent it over to police headquarters, and then decided to find out what was up with Bella.

  He turned over in his mind what he knew about her and her husband, Sean, while he drove out in the direction of their croft. Sean had reached the age of forty, two years before. He was a quiet, taciturn man. Then he came back from a trip to Inverness with a new bride—Bella. Bella was fifteen years younger than he, and the locals had murmured that never was there a more unsuitable crofter’s wife. She wore flimsy, flirty clothes and could be seen teetering around Lochdubh in unsuitable high heels. She giggled and prattled and had seemed relatively happy.

  Hamish parked his car outside their whitewashed croft house and knocked on the door. Bella opened it. “I’m right glad you’ve come,” she said. “I’ve been wondering what to do.”

  Hamish removed his cap and followed her into the kitchen.

  “Would you like a cup of tea?”

  “Maybe later. Tell me what’s up.”

  She sat down at the kitchen table. Her once-dyed-blonde hair was showing nearly two inches of black at the roots and was scraped back from her face. Her pale blue eyes were red with recent weeping.

  “I can’t take it any more,” she said. “It’s like being in prison. I can’t go out anywhere. No movies, no meals out. Just stuck here, day in, day out.”

  “Does he beat you?”

  “No, he doesn’t have to. He just threatens to and I do what he wants. Look at my hair,” she wailed, holding out a strand for Hamish’s inspection. “He says if I dye it again, he’ll kill me.”

  “What about marriage counselling?”

  “Can you see Sean going to a marriage counsellor? We keep ourselves to ourselves, that’s what he says, day in and day out.”

  “Where would you go?”

  She nervously twisted her gold wedding ring around her finger. “I’ve got a friend in Inverness. I should have married him. I phoned him. He said I could come to him anytime I wanted.”

  “So why do you need me?”

  “Folks round here say you’re prepared to bend the rules a bit to help people out. I want time to pack up my things and get out.” She looked anxiously at the clock. “We’ve only got about half an hour. I can’t drive. I thought you could lock him up for something and then give me a lift down to the bus in Lochdubh.”

  “I cannae do that,” exclaimed Hamish, whose accent always became broader when he was upset. “You’ll need to talk to one of the women.”

  “I don’t know any of them.”

  “And I cannae interfere in a marriage. Och, I tell you what. Leave it with me. I sometimes see you around the village. How do you get down there?”

  “Sean drives me down. Then he goes off to the pub while I get the shopping.”

  “So next time, just get on the bus.”

  “And leave all my things? I’ve got my mother’s jewellery.”

  “You could put that in your handbag or in the bottom of a shopping bag.”

  “He searches my bags the whole time in case someone’s been slipping me letters. He checks the phone bill. If I’m still here when it next comes in, he’ll ask me what I was doing phoning the police station. I’ll need to tell him I saw someone suspicious hanging around.”

  “So how did you get in touch with this fellow in Inverness?”

  “Last time I was down in Lochdubh, I phoned from the telephone box on the front as soon as Sean was in the pub. A couple of pounds it took and that was the very last of my own money. He doesn’t allow me any except for the shopping, and when he gets home, he ticks every item off on the list.”

  “You need some friends here, women friends. Let me try to fix something.”

  “It won’t do any good. He’ll send them off.”

  Hamish suddenly grinned. “He doesn’t know Mrs. Wellington, then.”

  Hamish drove back to the police station and put Lugs inside. He was walking up to the manse to see Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, when Elsp
eth caught up with him.

  “It’s about Stoyre,” she said.

  “Later, Elspeth,” said Hamish curtly. “I’m busy.”

  She gave him an odd, disappointed look and turned away.

  I shouldn’t have been so rude to her, thought Hamish. But one thing at a time. Stoyre can wait.

  He went on to the manse.

  Mrs. Wellington was a formidable woman dressed as usual, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket, silk blouse and baggy tweed skirt, thick stockings, and brogues.

  “Oh, it’s you,” she said ungraciously.

  “I want to talk to you about a delicate matter,” said Hamish.

  “In trouble with the ladies again?” she boomed. “Mary Bisset’s mother is going around saying you’re chasing her daughter.”

  “That’s rubbish. Can I come in?”

  Hamish followed her into the manse kitchen, a gloomy room which smelled strongly of disinfectant. Manse houses were always dark, he reflected, as if light were considered unholy.

  He explained Bella’s problem. Mrs. Wellington listened carefully and said, “She’s a flighty little thing and he should never have married her, but she does need to get out a bit and the Mothers’ Union always needs new members.”

  “She doesn’t have children.”

  “Neither do the Currie sisters,” said Mrs. Wellington dryly. “But that doesn’t stop them from trying to run everything. Leave it with me, Hamish.”

  Hamish walked back down to the Highland Times office to look for Elspeth. He found her sitting at her desk, moodily stabbing a pencil into her hair.

  “So what about Stoyre?” he asked.

  “I took a run over there,” she said. “Nothing. No one in the church.”

  “So that’s all you wanted to tell me?”

  “I think you should go back. There’s an odd feeling about.”

  “What sort of feeling?”

  “Fear.”

  “It’s probably the fear of some Calvinistic God. They seem to have gone all religious.”

  “Could be. But I smell something else.”

  Hamish suddenly felt ravenously hungry. He had not eaten any breakfast. To make up to Elspeth for his recent rudeness, he was about to ask her to join him at the Italian restaurant, but she looked up at him and grinned and said, “What’s all this about you romancing Mary Bisset?”