Hamish Macbeth 19 (2003) - Death of a Village

by M C Beaton

  “We’d have got on to it,” protested Blair. “We didn’t really need Macbeth.”

  “Oh, really?” said the Glaswegian. “But there had been previous frauds and all to do with that wine and whisky importer and you weren’t able to discover anything then.”

  Daviot flashed Blair a warning look. “Normally,” he said soothingly, “Macbeth does not lead a very demanding existence, and we have been meeting here because we feel his talents are being wasted in a Highland village.”

  A constable entered and handed an envelope to Helen, Daviot’s secretary, who had been taking the minutes. She opened it and said, “Sir, I think you should read this.”

  She handed it to Daviot, who studied the contents of the envelope, his face darkening.

  “I am afraid, gentlemen,” he said, “that this is a letter and a medical certificate from a certain Dr. Brodie in Lochdubh. He says Macbeth is suffering from depression and exhaustion and has recommended two weeks’ leave.”

  “What!” howled Blair. “That man is a born liar.”

  “If he is prone to exhaustion,” said one, “I feel he will not be up to the rigours of crime in the city.”

  “He’s faking,” growled Blair, his face red with fury. “That doctor’s a friend of his.”

  “Helen, get Dr. Brodie on the phone.”

  Helen left the room and came back a few moments later. “I have the number. Will I get him for you, sir?”

  “No, give me the phone.” Helen placed a phone in front of him and told him the number.

  The others waited. They could hear Daviot asking questions and then he listened in silence as the doctor spoke. Finally he thanked him and said goodbye.

  “Macbeth,” he said heavily, “has gone off somewhere, no one knows where. His final message was that he would be back on duty in two weeks’ time.”

  “This is rubbish…” started Blair.

  Daviot turned cold eyes on him. “Would you please wait outside?”

  His face flaming, Blair left. He paced up and down outside. Oh, please, he prayed to the God he didn’t believe in, send Hamish Macbeth to Glasgow, or the Outer Hebrides, or anywhere but Lochdubh.

  He waited a long time. At last the door opened and they all filed out. Blair waited impatiently and then approached Daviot. “Well?” he demanded.

  “Well, what?”

  “Well, sir, what’s happened?”

  “We have decided to leave Macbeth where he is for the moment. He should have reported to us. We cannot suspend him from duty, as he is such a hero. He always was a bit of a maverick. Perhaps it would be safer to leave him where he is. No!” He held up his hand to stifle the outburst that he could see was just about to erupt from Blair. “You should know when to keep your mouth shut. There was no need for you to have attended the meeting. The least you could have done was to keep quiet and not make an exhibition of yourself. Dr. Brodie is a fine man. I was over in Lochdubh once with my wife, and our poodle, Snuffy, fell ill. The local vet was on holiday so we took poor Snuffy to Dr. Brodie. He was kindness itself. He kept Snuffy overnight at the surgery for observation and the dog was right as rain the next day. We must respect the opinion of such a man. You may go.”

  Blair went off to get well and truly drunk.

  Hamish, camped on a hillside, heard his mobile phone ring and answered it. It was Dr. Brodie. “That friend of yours, Jimmy Anderson, called. You’re off the hook, so enjoy your holiday.”

  “Thanks a lot.”

  “You should be thanking your boss’s dog. That animal fell sick once and I looked after it and gave it back to him, cured, the next day. He thinks I’m a genius.”

  “What was up with it?”

  “I did a bit of detective work myself and found the Daviots had been at the Italian restaurant where Willie Lamont, it turned out, had said he would look after the animal in the kitchen and fed the brute to bursting point. All I did was let the beast sleep it off. So what are you doing now?”

  “Camping. Just me and Lugs. Peace and quiet. Have you seen anything of Elspeth?”

  “The reporter? No. Why? She’s never ill.”

  “I phoned her a couple of times and she just hung up on me.”

  “You always were unlucky in love,” said the doctor, and roared with heartless laughter.

  Hamish walked the rest of the day and then went back to a camping spot next to a river where he had parked the Land Rover that morning. He set up his tent, got out his camping stove, and started to fry sausages. “This is the life, eh, Lugs?” he said, turning sausages in the pan.

  Lugs wagged his tail and lolled his tongue and gazed eagerly at the sausages.

  The sun was setting behind the mountains, going down in a blaze of glory. Hamish felt content. Worries about Priscilla’s marriage and worries about Elspeth were firmly put to the very back of his mind. For two whole weeks, he was free from responsibility. He had seen no one all day except two hillwalkers in the distance.

  After supper, he read for a while by the light of a gas lamp and then decided to turn in. He gave himself a perfunctory wash and settled down in his sleeping bag, still dressed in sweater and trousers because it was a cold night. Lugs snuggled down at his side and soon both were fast asleep.

  Hamish awoke with a start in the middle of the night, all his senses suddenly alert. He automatically felt for Lugs’s rough coat and, not finding the dog, struggled out of his sleeping bag. He lit the gas lamp. No dog.

  And then he froze. The tent flap opened and a man crawled in. He was holding a pistol. “Don’t make a move,” he said. He had several days’ growth of beard. He was wearing an anorak over black trousers that Hamish noticed bore white marks of salt. He was small and wiry with a long thin face and black eyes which glittered dangerously in the light of the camping lamp.

  “My dog?” asked Hamish through dry lips. “What have you done with my dog?”

  “Quiet, isn’t he?” sneered the man.

  That accent! “You’re German,” said Hamish. “You were with the diving team.”

  “And I recognise you from the newspapers,” the German said. His voice was light and his English perfect. “So this is the policeman who wrecked all our plans.”

  “How did you make it to shore?”

  “Because I didn’t weight myself down with gold bars like the rest. Now, you are going to make me something to eat. I have you covered.”

  Keep him talking, thought Hamish. The tent was low, so he had to move doubled up. “I’d be better to take the stove outside,” he said.

  “No. Here!”

  Hamish pumped up the stove and lit it and put the frying pan on top of it. “I have bacon and eggs,” he said.

  “That’ll do.”

  “And then what?” asked Hamish.

  “Then I will kill you and take your police vehicle.”

  Hamish looked at the gun. “We’re not very up on guns in the Highlands,” he said, his voice soft and amiable as if entertaining a friend. “What kind is it?”

  The man laughed. “You’re brave. It’ll be a pity to kill you. This, my friend, is an HS 2000 semi-automatic pistol, made in Croatia. It’s the best of its kind anywhere.”

  The fat was hot. Hamish laid in two rashers of bacon. This man may kill me but I’ll try to at least damage him first, he thought. He knew that the landscape for miles around was empty of habitation, and who was going to come by in the middle of the night?

  And then he heard voices. He could hardly believe his ears. Then a woman saying loudly, “Shine your torch. It’s a dog. He’s wounded.”

  The man swore. “Move outside and join them. Fast!”

  Hamish switched off the stove and moved forward through the tent flap, carrying the gas lamp with him. The light shone down on Lugs. The dog was lying still, a nasty-looking wound on his head. Hamish could feel rage boiling up inside him. Two figures were crouched down beside Lugs. A man and a woman. They were probably the hillwalkers he had seen earlier.

  The man was shining a t
orch on Lugs. “What happened here?” he asked.

  “Get to your feet,” ordered the German, “and put your hands on your head.”

  Startled, they rose up, and stood staring at the gun.

  “You join them,” the German said to Hamish. “Back against the Land Rover. It looks as if I’ll have to kill all of you,” he said.

  “Don’t you want to eat first?”

  He grinned. “You’re a cool one. I can cook myself.”

  “Did you hit that dog?” asked the woman, tears starting to her eyes.

  “Had to silence it. Lured it out of the tent with a bit of cheese. I’ve been stalking this man all day.”

  “Shoot him but let us go,” cried the woman. “We won’t say anything.”

  “What were you doing walking the hills in the middle of the night?” asked Hamish.

  “We’re on our honeymoon,” she said. “We thought it would be so romantic to walk under the stars.”

  “I am Hamish Macbeth, police constable of Lochdubh. What are your names?”

  “I’m Peter and this is Linda,” said the man.

  “For Gott’s sake,” said the German, his accent thickening. “Let us get this over with.”

  He raised the pistol.

  “Do you mind if I turn my back?” asked Hamish. “I neffer did like to look death in the face.”

  “Oh, very well. All of you turn round. Against the Land Rover.”

  “Do ye mind if I say a wee prayer?”

  “You are crazy,” he said. “Make it short.”

  Hamish quietly slid one long arm through the open window of the Land Rover and his fingers grasped what he hoped to find.

  “Get on with it!” shouted the German. “I don’t know why I am even bothering with this nonsense!”

  “For what you are about to receive,” said Hamish gently, “may the Lord make me truly grateful.”

  In one fluid movement, he seized the shotgun he had loaded earlier, meaning to shoot a rabbit for the pot, dropped to the ground, rolled over, and blasted the German in the chest.

  Linda began to scream. “Shut up!” shouted Hamish. “Let me think.” He had to get Lugs to a vet. He would have to explain why he had taken the Land Rover on holiday with him. Worse, he would have to explain why he had a loaded shotgun in the front seat of the vehicle, which was unlocked and had a window open.

  He knelt down by the German. There was no pulse.

  Ignoring Linda, who was now sobbing, and Peter, who was being sick, he got into the Land Rover and switched on the radio. Desperately he radioed Strathbane, asking for a helicopter, explaining roughly what had happened. He gave them as exact a location as he could and said he would light a bonfire.

  He then turned and said to Peter, “You’re going to have to help me find wood and heather to make a fire. Pull yourself together, man.”

  Hamish then bent down beside Lugs. The dog had a bleeding wound on his head. Lugs was still breathing…just.

  He got his sleeping bag from the tent and covered the dog and then went to help find stuff for the bonfire. “There’s nothing but heather,” panted Peter, rushing back with an armful.

  “That’ll do. We need piles of it.”

  Linda had slumped down beside the Land Rover, her eyes closed. Hamish jerked her to her feet. “You’re in shock, so you cannae go to sleep now. Get moving and help with the fire.”

  “Can’t you cover that man up?” She shuddered and looked at the dead body of the German.

  Hamish went into the tent and came out with a rug and threw it over the body.

  When a great pile of heather had been gathered, he threw petrol over it and struck a match. “They should see that,” he said. “Keep getting more heather.”

  An hour passed while they desperately fed the fire, and all the time Hamish prayed for the life of his dog.

  He could have cried with relief when he heard the whirr of a helicopter soaring over the mountains. Then came another.

  They both set down in the heather. Police poured out, headed by Jimmy Anderson.

  “It’s Lugs,” cried Hamish. “He’s mortal bad. Got to get him to a vet.”

  Jimmy’s sidekick, MacNab, was there with him. “Hamish, we’ve got to get a full statement. We’ve got to wait for the pathologist…”

  “We’ve got two helicopters,” said Jimmy, “and Macbeth here needs hospital treatment.”

  “For what?” asked MacNab.

  “I’ll think o’ something. Get along, Hamish.”

  Hamish lifted Lugs tenderly into the helicopter. “Hospital?” asked the pilot.

  “No, the vet,” said Hamish.

  All the way to the small airport at Strathbane, Hamish held Lugs. The pilot had radioed ahead and a police car was waiting for them. There was a vet in Strathbane. Hamish knew where he lived, so he directed the driver to the man’s house. Once there, he hammered on the door until the vet, blinking sleepily, answered it.

  “It’s my dog, Fred,” gasped Hamish. “He’s dying. Someone hit him. I don’t want him to die.”

  “Take him round to the surgery next door. I’ll need my coat.”

  In the surgery Lugs was laid out on a table. “Pretty bad,” murmured the vet. “You’ll need to leave the animal with me, Hamish. No, there’s nothing you can do here. Go and get some sleep.”

  Hamish reluctantly went back to the police car. “They’ve just radioed,” said the driver. “Mr. Daviot’s out of his bed and heading for headquarters. He wants a full statement from you.”

  Hamish groaned.

  Superintendent Daviot saw Hamish in an interview room, not in his office. Another detective was there, a new one Hamish did not recognise, and the tape was started as Daviot explained. “I want you to give me a full report. I gather he was the only survivor from that boatload of Germans. The two hillwalkers say you pulled a shotgun out of the police Land Rover and shot him. They do say he was ready to kill all of you. But what we must know for the record is why you took a police vehicle with you when you were supposed to be on leave and why you had a loaded shotgun in an unlocked vehicle with a window open.”

  I must make this good, thought Hamish. I can’t afford to lose my job.

  “A friend gave me a lift a good bit of the way when I started my leave,” said Hamish. There was a short silence. The tape whirred. I must get Angela to say she drove me, thought Hamish. He began again. “I took my camping equipment in a rucksack. My dog and I were walking up in the hills above Stoyre when I thought I saw a man skulking about in the distance. I began to wonder if they had all drowned.”

  “For the tape, Macbeth. You mean the Germans from the wrecked boat who had been diving for the gold?”

  “Yes, that is so. I phoned my friend Angela Brodie and asked her to take me back to Lochdubh. I have been suffering from exhaustion and thought I was imagining things. But I thought I would go back up and see if I could find that man. I took my shotgun with me. I knew if he was one of them, he would be desperate. I went back there to search but found no one. I thought I heard a noise in the middle of the night and went out and opened up the Land Rover and loaded my shotgun. At that point, Lugs, my dog, rushed off barking into the night. I heard a crack. That must have been when Lugs got hit on the head. I ran in the direction of the noise and found Lugs lying in the heather and the German pointing a pistol at me. He ordered me back to the tent. I picked up my dog and carried him. Outside the tent, he ordered me to put the dog down and go into the tent and make him some food. Then when I was just beginning to cook eggs and bacon for him, we heard Linda and Peter, the hillwalkers, exclaiming over the dog. He ordered me outside. He told us he was going to shoot us all. I asked if I could turn my back. He agreed. I reached into the Land Rover, grabbed the shotgun, fell to the ground, and twisted round and shot him.”

  “But if you thought there was a dangerous criminal loose in the heather, why did you not report it?”

  “I am not myself, sir,” said Hamish weakly. “I’ve been feeling weak and shak
y.”

  Daviot turned to the detective. “Switch off the tape and wait outside.”

  When the detective had left, Daviot looked at Hamish and sighed. “What am I to do with you? We have already issued a statement to the press that you are on leave. We do not want them to know that you have been going around like a Wild West sheriff. We will issue a statement saying a stranger had been seen up on the hills and you had gone to investigate. Make it official. But tell me this. What on earth was the German doing to give you time to reach into the Land Rover, get out the shotgun, and turn round and shoot him?”

  “I asked to say a prayer. I think that threw him. I am very fast with a shotgun, sir.”

  “So I’ve heard, now come to think of it. You used to win all the prizes at the clay shoot down at Moy Hall. Why did you stop competing?”

  “Give someone else a chance,” said Hamish with a simple Highland vanity. “I’m too good for the others.”

  “You look a wreck. We’ll give you a lift back to Lochdubh. A policeman has been ordered to drive your vehicle back to your station.”

  “Sir, if you don’t mind. I have to stay here the rest of the night. My dog’s at the vet.”

  “Of course,” said Daviot quickly, and Hamish was grateful that his boss was sentimental about animals.

  “I’ll see if one of the cells is free.”

  “Just this once, you may put up at a hotel. Charge the room on your credit card and then put the bill in with your expenses. You do have your credit cards with you?”

  Hamish felt in his pocket. “Yes, I still have my wallet.”

  “Off you go.”

  Hamish chose a small hotel near the vet’s. He phoned Angela Brodie, who said, yes, she would swear blind she had driven him. It was six in the morning when he climbed into bed. He’d asked for an alarm call at nine.

  After the call had come in, he washed and put on his clothes, ruefully feeling the red bristles on his chin. He tried to eat a quick breakfast in the small dining room but the food seemed to stick in his throat. He was just pushing his plate away when Angela walked in. Her thin face lit up when she saw him. “I thought I’d better come and drive you around and make it official. Let’s go and see Lugs.”