Death of a Chimney Sweep hm-1

by M C Beaton

  “I suppose he denied the whole thing.”

  “He couldn’t. I walked over and when I reached the rise above Drim and looked down, I could see police cars, police tape, and flashing lights. I thought, he’s been caught out at last. I didn’t want to tell you. People who’ve been tricked like me feel such fools. Then on the evening news on television, I heard about his murder. I suppose now you’ll want to take me in.”

  Hamish surveyed her small figure. “If I thought for a moment you would have the strength to stuff a man of the captain’s size up his own chimney, I’d take you down to police headquarters for questioning. We’ll keep this quiet for the moment. Milly Davenport is trying to repay money to other victims, but she’s not that well off and you can afford it so I won’t be telling her, either.”

  “Thank you. I can’t believe I let myself get tricked by that man. But he seemed capable of exuding a sort of warmth and comfort and I did need a shoulder to cry on.”

  “It’s the cruelty of it!” exclaimed Hamish. “A wee bit here, a wee bit there, like a magpie. You’d think he’d use his nasty talents to go for the big time. Oh, he duped his army friends all right, but I would have thought he would be the sort to go in for some really massive scam.”

  “Maybe he did,” said Caro. “Maybe one of the four men I heard about actually parted with a great deal more than he’s saying.”

  “It’s a thought.”

  The corpse of Betty Close lay undisturbed on the bottom of the Gareloch until the canvas of the cheap suitcase she had been packed in finally gave way. The material of the case was already rotted from the salt water, and the pressure from the gases of the decomposing body inside finally burst it open. The corpse floated up to the surface and was borne on a gentle current to a pebbly beach, where it was discovered by a woman walking her dog.

  The police were quickly called. The body was naked, and there was not one single sign of identification.

  Elspeth, reading out the news that evening, felt a frisson of shock. For some reason, her thoughts flew to Hamish telling her about the murder of the prostitute. Betty Close had not come back to work. It was generally assumed that she had gone off somewhere in a huff.

  When she had finished reading the news, Elspeth went back to her dressing room after getting a note of Betty’s home address and phoned a police inspector she knew. She told him it was a long shot but that they had a missing researcher called Betty Close and gave him the address.

  Then she phoned Hamish Macbeth.

  Chapter Seven

  Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,

  He travels the fastest who travels alone.

  —Rudyard Kipling

  It was a slow process before the body was finally identified as that of Betty Close.

  Jimmy Anderson called one evening to give Hamish the news.

  “I chust knew it!” cried Hamish. “I guessed she must ha’ been listening in when I was telling Elspeth about the idea I had that the death of yon prostitute was somehow linked to the murders.”

  “We’re not going to get anywhere with that, Hamish.”

  “Why?”

  “Blair is jumping on the idea. ‘What proof?’ he asks Daviot. ‘Jist some intuition of some highland loon.’ Daviot is anxious not to tread on the toes of another police force. Strathclyde police are investigating, he says, and they are very efficient and that’s the end of that.”

  “I swear to God,” said Hamish passionately, “that one of those four men is involved, if not all.”

  “Hamish, calm down. Ever since that business with your friend Angela, you’ve been turning your mind away from the locals.”

  “Maybe,” said Hamish with sudden mildness. “Could be.”

  After Jimmy had left, Hamish phoned Angela. “I’m thinking of taking a wee trip tomorrow,” he began. But Angela interrupted crossly, saying, “No, I cannot keep an eye on your beasties. I am due in Edinburgh tomorrow. More discussion on the launch of the book.”

  “Now, there’s an odd thing,” said Hamish. “I was just thinking of a trip to Edinburgh myself. Could you give me a lift?”

  “Yes, I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be leaving at eight in the morning.”

  “That’s grand. I’ll be outside your house then. We can share the driving.”

  Hamish then phoned Willie Lamont at the Italian restaurant and asked if he would periodically check on the dog and cat the following day.

  “I’ll do that,” said Willie.

  “And I’ll leave food for them, so don’t be feeding them. Lugs is getting a bit fat.”

  “Aye, they’re a rare pair of goormitts.”

  “Gourmets.”

  “Whateffer.”

  It was a lovely morning when Hamish walked along the waterfront to Angela’s home. A delicate mist was rising from the loch, where the calm waters were broken by a couple of seals.

  He wished with all his heart that the murders could be solved and leave him free to return to his old ways of lazing around and enjoying the scenery.

  Angela was already sitting in her car. “New car?” asked Hamish, sitting in the front seat of the Ford Escort.

  “New secondhand,” said Angela, moving off.

  The Currie sisters watched them go from behind their lace curtains. “You don’t think…?” asked Jessie.

  “I wouldn’t put anything past thon policeman,” said Nessie. “He’s a philanderer.” They decided to go along to Patel’s shop and spread a bit of speculative gossip.

  Angela’s publisher was fortuitously situated in the Royal Mile. Because the famous street was a pedestrian area, Angela found a car park near the Cowgate and they walked together up the High Street, as the Royal Mile was also called. Angela’s publisher had offices in the Grassmarket. Hamish agreed to meet her at four in the afternoon. Angela had said she would be having a working lunch in her publisher’s offices. Hamish, as he headed for the Canongate, found he was very hungry. He found a small trendy café which, unfortunately for his rather debased food tastes, turned out to be vegetarian. He reminded himself severely that it was time he switched to eating healthy food and ordered vegetable soup followed by cauliflower and cheese.

  Then he left the café and found the address where the prostitute had been murdered.

  He walked into the close and then up to the tenement. Like Betty, he found that everyone seemed to be out except for a man who lived under the prostitute’s flat.

  Hamish produced his warrant card and then asked politely, “May I come in?”

  It was the same balding, black-eyed man that Betty had seen. But Hamish did not know that.

  “No,” he said curtly. “I’m busy.”

  Hamish raised his voice to a near shout. “I am investigating the murder of Betty Close.”

  The man grabbed his arm and practically pulled him into the flat. “All right, all right,” he said.

  Hamish walked past him into a narrow corridor. He shut the door. “In here,” he said. He opened a door into a living room. It was a strangely sterile room: black three-piece leather suite, low glass coffee table, one huge flat-screen TV and stereo system, but no books or pictures.

  “What is your name?” asked Hamish.

  “John Dean. Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I happened to be visiting Edinburgh and thought I would make some enquiries. Did you speak to Betty Close?”

  “Who’s she?”

  Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Man, it’s been in all the papers. She was a television researcher.”

  “Oh, I mind. The wee lassie that was found in the Gareloch. Shouldn’t you be over there?”

  “You haven’t answered my question. And there was only a head-and-shoulders picture of her published in the newspapers, so how do you know she was wee?”

  “It’s just an expression.”

  “What do you do for a living, Mr. Dean?”

  “I’m retired.”

  “From what?”


  “I owned a disco, Dancing Dirty, down in the Grassmarket.”

  “You’re in your… fifties? Bit young to retire if it was your own business.”

  He sighed. “I wish you’d mind yours. I was bought out.”

  “Who bought you out?”

  “Scots Entertainment PLC.”

  “And where will I find them?”

  “Enough!” he shouted. “Either arrest me and charge me with something or get the hell out of here.”

  “You are behaving very suspiciously.”

  “Get out!”

  Hamish left the flats, went into the nearest shop, and asked if he could look at an Edinburgh telephone directory. Scots Entertainment had offices in Leith Walk. He set off in that direction.

  He finally located it with some difficulty because the offices were not actually in Leith Walk itself but in a tenement in a side street. There was a brass plaque on the wall with the name of the company. Hamish walked up the old stone stairs and located the offices on the second floor. He pushed open the door, went in, and blinked at the vision sitting behind the reception desk.

  The receptionist was an exquisite blonde wearing a simple black dress and pearls. She had blue eyes in a smooth unlined face. She opened her mouth which was delicately painted pink and said, “Yeah, whit dae ye want?” in a guttural Glaswegian accent.

  “I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. May I be having a wee word wi’ your boss?”

  “Naw. He’s on holiday in the Maldives.”

  “And who is standing in for him?”

  “Naebody, copper. Push off.”

  “You sound as if you’d had experience with the police,” said Hamish, “otherwise you wouldn’t be so damn rude.”

  “I’m no’ paid to be nice. Take a hike.”

  Hamish went to a café across Leith Walk where he could sit at the window and get a clear view of the entrance to the offices. The day wore on but no one appeared. Finally, he glanced at his watch and realised that if he did not hurry he would be late to meet Angela. He would need to return home and see if he could get Jimmy interested enough to investigate the background of Scots Entertainment.

  As he started walking towards the Royal Mile, he had an uncanny feeling that he was being followed. He whipped around several times but could see no one sinister. He speeded up until he was running fast, threading his way agilely through the crowd. He dived into a doorway, fished out a small camera, and waited. Eventually, he saw a burly man hurrying past. Hamish ran after him, past him, swung around and took a photograph of him, and then ran on. The man pounded after him but was no match for Hamish’s speed, for Hamish had won many prizes as a hill runner. He lost the man in the closes off the Mile and then circled back to the parking place where Angela was already waiting for him.

  “You’re all sweaty, Hamish,” said Angela.

  “I was running late,” said Hamish, settling himself into the passenger seat. “I wish you’d get a bigger car, Angela. My knees are up to my chin.”

  “Then get your own car.”

  “How did you get on?”

  As they drove off, Angela talked excitedly about her working lunch. Hamish only half listened. He would get that photograph developed and see if anything like him turned up in the mug shots in Strathbane.

  Late that evening, Hamish sat in a pub in Strathbane, showed Jimmy the photograph he had printed off his digital camera at Patel’s, and told him about his day.

  “And how am I going to explain your unauthorised visit to Edinburgh?” complained Jimmy.

  “Anonymous letter?”

  “Saying what exactly?”

  “That Scots Entertainment is a front for prostitution.”

  “And is it?”

  “I have a hunch…”

  “Oh, spare me your highland hunches,” groaned Jimmy. “All right, I’ll try it. When can you let me have it?”

  “Now,” said Hamish. “I typed this on one of the old typewriters at the school. I want leave, Jimmy, and urgently. Could you say my aunt in Dornoch is ill?”

  “Have you an aunt in Dornoch?”

  “She died last year so that makes her as ill as you can get.”

  “You’re going to Guildford,” said Jimmy accusingly.

  “Well, chust let’s say, you don’t know that.”

  Hamish took the long road to Guildford in Surrey early the next morning, after pleading with Willie Lamont again to look after his pets. He flew from Inverness to Gatwick, hired a car with a fleeting thought for his dwindling bank balance, checked his maps, and set out for Guildford. The four men lived in a builder’s estate called Surrey Loan on the outskirts of the town. The houses looked expensive but sterile and devoid of character, for despite their size, they were all remarkably alike.

  The men would not tell him anything, but perhaps they were hopefully still out at work and their wives would say something.

  He drew a blank at Ferdinand Castle’s home. No one was at home. Elspeth had told him that the wives had refused to speak to her. Two streets away, Mrs. Bromley, thin and acidic, slammed the door in his face. Through the window, he saw her dialling a number on the telephone. He got the same treatment from Mrs. Sanders.

  Wearily, he trudged on to the home of Charles Prosser. No one replied. He was just about to turn away when a woman in a four-wheel drive turned into the short drive.

  She got out exposing a long length of leg.

  “Mrs. Prosser?” asked Hamish.

  Her eyes behind blue contact lenses surveyed the tall policeman with the flaming red hair.

  “That’s me,” she said huskily.

  “I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”

  In her high heels, she was almost as tall as Hamish. Everything that could be done to maintain a woman’s appearance from cosmetic surgery to dyed hair had been achieved and had produced a glamorous effect.

  “I say, how exciting. Are you going to put me in handcuffs?”

  “Not I,” said Hamish.

  Her collagen-plumped lips expanded in a smile. “Pity. Come inside and we’ll have a drink or something.”

  In the hall, she shrugged off her coat. She was wearing a low-necked blouse in a leopardskin print with very tight jeans. She bent over in front of Hamish to slip off her high-heeled shoes, revealing two very round, very firm breasts. Silicone, thought Hamish cynically. He remembered from the notes he had read that her name was Sandra and that she was fifty-two years old.

  “Come through to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way.

  The kitchen was large and square and full of every labour-saving device.

  “Coffee, or something stronger?”

  “Coffee would be grand.”

  The phone rang shrilly. “Probably some bore,” said Sandra. “Ignore it.”

  Probably Mrs. Bromley, thought Hamish.

  When the coffee was served, they sat at the kitchen table. “Now,” said Sandra, “why are you here?”

  “I was visiting an aunt in Guildford and thought I’d check up on a few points. You’ve been asked this before, but on the night of the murder of Charles Davenport, Mrs. Bromley and her husband, Mrs. Castle and her husband, John Sanders and Mrs. Sanders, and you and husband Charles were all having dinner together. Here?”

  “Well, we met here for drinks and then we all went on to a restaurant.”

  “It doesn’t say anything about that,” said Hamish, taking out a sheaf of notes and scanning them.

  “Well, we did.”

  “What is the name of the restaurant?”

  “Timothy’s. It’s near the town hall.”

  “So lots of people would see you there?”

  “Timothy himself can vouch for us.”

  “What time was this?”

  “About seven in the evening.”

  Not time for any of them to get up to the Highlands and back. He realised one of her stockinged feet was caressing his ankle. Should he? In the line of duty? An image of his
former love Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, cool as a mountain stream, rose before his eyes.

  He stood up abruptly.

  “Thank you for your time, Mrs. Prosser.”

  “Is that all? Don’t you want to stay, copper?”

  “People to meet, things to do,” gabbled Hamish, heading rapidly for the front door.

  He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. It was Mrs. Bromley. “There’s some highland copper snooping around,” she said.

  “Yes,” said Sandra. “I know.”

  “You didn’t speak to him, did you?”

  Sandra hesitated only a moment. “No, of course not.”

  Hamish found Timothy’s restaurant and asked to speak to the owner. Timothy was squat and balding. He had a heavy accent. Hamish decided he might be Greek or Turkish. To Hamish’s questions he replied testily that he had already gone over everything with the police. So Sandra had lied. Why? The police knew about the restaurant.

  What a wasted trip, thought Hamish. He had walked a few steps away from the restaurant when a thin, sallow-faced young man with thick oily hair grabbed his arm. “I want to sell you a bit of info,” he whispered.

  Now, thought Hamish, a proper copper would tell him it was his duty to report what he knew and drag him off to the Guildford police. On the other hand, he was not supposed to be in Guildford.

  They walked along the street. “How much?” asked Hamish.

  “A hundred.”

  “Fifty or nothing,” said Hamish, noticing that the pupils of the man’s eyes were like pinpoints.

  “All right. Give it to me.”

  “There’s a café ower there,” said Hamish. “Let’s sit down. Information first. And if it’s not worth anything, nothing is what you’re going to get.”

  The café was of the kind with a bewildering array of expensively priced coffee. Hamish ordered an Americana and his companion, a cappuccino.

  “What have you got?” asked Hamish, “First of all, your name?”

  “Stefan Loncar.”

  “So what information do you have for me?”

  “That bastard, Timothy, sacked me last week. Says if I talk to the police, he’d cut my balls off. But I’m going back to Zagreb tomorrow. I need money.”