Death of a Celebrity

by Beaton, M. C.

  ‘Want to come with me?’

  Hamish stretched out his long legs. ‘I’ve just been. Have the Currie sisters seen you in that outfit?’

  The Currie sisters were middle-aged twins, spinsters, and the upholders of morals in Lochdubh.

  ‘Yes. Jessie Currie told me that I should go home and put on a skirt and Nessie Currie defended me.’

  ‘Really! What did she say?’

  ‘She said my boots were so ugly that they made everything else I had on look respectable.’

  Hamish looked down at the heavy pair of hiking boots Elspeth was wearing. ‘I see what she means.’

  Elspeth flushed up to the roots of her frizzy aubergine hair with anger. ‘I don’t know why I bother even talking to you, Hamish Macbeth. I’m off.’

  When she had gone, Hamish lay back in his chair, clasped his hands behind his head. He shouldn’t have been so rude to her but he blamed her remarks about him being unambitious for having recently upset the lazy comfort of his summer days.

  The telephone in the police station rang, the noise cutting shrilly through the peace of the day.

  He sighed, got to his feet, and went to answer it. The voice of his pet hate, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, boomed down the line. ‘Get yoursel’ over to Braikie, laddie. Teller’s grocery in the High Street has been burgled. Anderson will be there soon.’

  ‘On my way,’ said Hamish.

  He took his peaked cap down from a peg on the kitchen door and put it on his head. ‘No, Lugs,’ he said to his dog, who was looking up at him out of his strange blue eyes. ‘You stay.’

  He went out and got into the police Land Rover and drove off, turning over in his mind what he knew of Teller’s grocery. It was a licensed shop and sold more upmarket groceries than its two rivals. He was relieved that he would be working with Detective Sergeant Jimmy Anderson rather than Blair.

  He parked outside the shop and went in. Mr Teller was a small, severe-faced man with gold-rimmed glasses. ‘You took your time,’ he said crossly. ‘They’ve taken all my wine and spirits, the whole lot. I found the lot gone when I opened up this morning, and phoned the police.’

  ‘I was out on another call,’ said Hamish. ‘How did they get in?’

  ‘Round the back.’ Mr Teller raised a flap on the counter and Hamish walked through.

  A pane of glass on the back door had been smashed. ‘The forensic people’ll be along soon.’ said Hamish. ‘I can’t touch anything at the moment.’

  ‘Well, let’s hope you hurry up. I’ve got to put a claim into the insurance company.’

  ‘How much for?’

  ‘I’ll need to total it up. Thousands of pounds.’

  Hamish looked blankly down at the shopkeeper. He had been in the shop before. He could not remember seeing any great supply of wine or spirits. There had been three shelves, near the till, that was all.

  He focused on Mr Teller. ‘I haven’t been in your shop for a bit. Had you expanded the liquor side?’

  ‘No, why?’

  ‘I remember only about three shelves of bottles.’

  ‘They took all the stuff out of the cellar as well.’

  ‘You’d better show me.’

  Mr Teller led the way to a door at the side of the back shop. The lock was splintered. Hamish took out a handkerchief and put it over the light switch at the top of the stairs and pressed. He stood on the top step and looked down. The cellar was certainly empty. And dusty.

  He returned to the front to find that Jimmy Anderson had arrived.

  ‘Hullo, Hamish,’ said the detective. ‘Crime, isn’t it? A real crime. All that lovely booze. Taken a statement yet?’

  ‘Not yet. Could I be having a wee word with you outside?’

  ‘Sure. I could do with a dram. There’s a pub across the road.’

  ‘Not yet. Outside.’

  Under the suspicious eyes of Mr Teller, they walked out into the street.

  ‘What?’ demanded Jimmy.

  ‘He is saying that thousands of pounds of booze have been nicked. But when I pointed out to him that he only kept about three shelves of the stuff, he said they had cleared out the cellar as well.’

  ‘So?’

  ‘The cellar floor is dusty. Even dust. No marks of boxes and, what’s more to the point, no drag marks. It is my belief he had nothing in that cellar. He could have been after the insurance.’

  ‘But the insurance will want to see the books, check the orders.’

  ‘True. Well, we’d best take a statement and then talk to his supplier.’

  They returned to the shop. Hamish took out a notebook. ‘Now, Mr Teller, you found the shop had been burgled when you opened up. That would be at nine o’clock?’

  ‘Eight-thirty.’

  ‘You didn’t touch anything?’

  ‘I went down to the cellar and found everything gone from there.’

  ‘We’ll check around and see if anyone heard or saw anything. What is the name of your supplier?’

  ‘Frog’s of Strathbane. Why?’

  ‘The insurance company will want to see your books to check the amount of the lost stores against your record of deliveries.’

  ‘They’re welcome to look at them anytime.’

  ‘Have you seen anyone suspicious about the town?’

  ‘Now, there’s a thing. There were two rough-looking men came into the shop two days ago. I hadn’t seen them before. They asked for cigarettes and I served them but they were looking all around the place.’

  ‘Descriptions?’

  ‘One was a big ape of a man. He had black hair, foreign-looking. Big nose and thick lips. He was wearing a checked shirt and jeans.’

  ‘Did he sound foreign?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Two men in white overalls came into the shop carrying cases of equipment. ‘We’ll stop for a moment while you take the forensic boys through the back to check the break-in,’ said Hamish.

  ‘What do you think?’ Hamish asked Jimmy when the shopkeeper had gone through to the back shop with the forensic team.

  ‘Seems a respectable body. Still, we’ll check with Frog’s. If he’d had the stuff delivered, then he must be telling the truth.’

  ‘I don’t like the look o’ that cellar floor.’

  ‘Well, if there’s anything fishy, the forensic boys will find it.’

  They waited until Mr Teller came back. ‘Now,’ said Hamish, ‘what did the other fellow look like?’

  ‘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 Hami
sh.

  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, recognizing 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.

  ‘Tam 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. ‘Mac-beth’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.’

  ‘Anderson’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 return
ed from Braikie 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 angry 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 inquiries 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.