Death of a Policeman (Hamish Macbeth)

by Beaton, M. C.

  Before he reached Cyril’s car, Blair turned round suddenly and shouted at Hamish, “You! Get back there. If those are the folk that found him, get their statement.”

  “I have all their statements,” said Hamish.

  “Just make sure they don’t run off!”

  Blair was desperate to search Cyril’s body and make sure there was nothing on it to show that he was the one who had sent Cyril to chase Macbeth.

  He was about to open the car door when Mr. Carrick pulled him back. “What are you doing, man? We can’t do anything until a forensic team arrives. We should not even have come down to the crime scene.”

  So Blair returned to grill the Hardys until Terence shouted that he would get a lawyer and sue Blair for police harassment.

  Blair turned his wrath on Hamish. “What were you doing up here anyway?”

  “I got a report of a burglary.”

  “But there’s nothing here!” roared Blair. “I looked down from the helicopter and couldn’t see a single house.”

  “The voice was faint and I thought it might be a tourist who had something taken from his car,” said Hamish.

  The day dragged on. The forensic team arrived and the body had to be moved up the beach away from the rising tide. “Get down there,” Hamish whispered urgently to Jimmy, “and grab all the stuff Carrick will find in his pockets and get it before Blair. Dick, have you any alcohol?”

  “I’ve a bottle of whisky I carry around. It helps to loosen up folk we might need to talk to.”

  “Give it to Blair.”

  “Are you mad? He’ll drink the lot.”

  “That’s the idea,” said Hamish.

  Blair accepted the whisky and a glass with a satisfied grunt. He felt he desperately needed something to quell his fears. Frightened that someone else might want some, he retreated to a flat rock and proceeded to make inroads into the bottle.

  Soothed by the whisky and the susurration of the waves on the beach, Blair fell asleep, his heavy head on his chest.

  The Hardys had been given permission to leave, and the first thing Kylie did when she once more got a phone signal was to call the press. She wanted to go back so that she could be photographed at the crime scene but her husband said grimly that he wasn’t going back there.

  Blair woke suddenly, blinked, and looked around. Jimmy Anderson was just coming up from the beach, carrying an evidence bag. “He was one of ours,” said Jimmy. “Cyril Sessions.”

  The lights of a television camera crew suddenly flooded the scene. “I’ll take that,” said Blair, stumbling to his feet.

  “Yes,” said Jimmy loudly. “The dead man is policeman Cyril Sessions. I have his mobile phone here and his camera so we might find out who he was in contact with.”

  “Get oot o’ here!” roared Blair, stumbling towards the television crew and waving his fists.

  His heart sank as a long sleek car drew up and Superintendent Peter Daviot got out of the back.

  “Do we have any identity for the dead man?” he asked.

  “It’s policeman Cyril Sessions,” said Jimmy quickly. “I have his phone here along with other items. We can check it. Maybe he contacted the murderer before he died.” He was wearing latex gloves. He fished out the phone.

  “Leave it!” howled Blair. “We can check it back at headquarters.”

  “Give it to me,” commanded Daviot. He drew out a pair of latex gloves and put them on. He switched on the phone and scrolled down the numbers Cyril had been phoning.

  “There are calls to police headquarters and I recognise this one. Mr. Blair, this is your home phone number.”

  “I was training him,” mumbled Blair. “Told him to keep in touch.”

  “Any text messages?” asked Hamish.

  “Let me see. Yes, here is one. Good heavens! It is from you, Mr. Blair, and it says, ‘Haven’t you found out anything yet to nail that bastard Macbeth?’ Mr. Blair, you will accompany me back to headquarters. Anderson, you are now in charge.”

  In vain did Blair protest that it was in the interests of the police to make sure Macbeth was doing his job. He was told he would be suspended from duty pending a full police enquiry.

  Hetty Dunstable read of the death of Cyril in the morning paper and burst into tears. She was sure now that Cyril had loved her. Then she remembered Hamish saying he would shoot him.

  Hamish went back the next morning on the road to Sandybeach, leaving Dick to man the police station and look after the dog and cat. He wished he had not switched off the siren as soon as he left the village the day before. Perhaps then more people would have come out of their cottages to watch. Cyril had been following him, but someone had been following Cyril.

  Hamish stopped at cottages by the road to ask if anyone had seen cars going past. Two said they had seen the Land Rover, but no one had even seen Cyril’s car following.

  He knew a squad of police were scouring the ground all around the beach looking for clues. Hamish stopped by the side of the road to think.

  He looked at the peaty moorland stretching on either side before the one-track road turned down to follow the coast. Perhaps the murderer had used a motorbike or dune buggy to come over the moors. Up on the moors, there was a good view of the road.

  Hamish suddenly stood stock-still, assailed by a feeling of dread. Thin black clouds were racing across the sky from the west, heralding a break in the good weather. From his vantage point up on the moors, he could see giant waves crashing down on the beach. He was just about to continue his search when he saw Dick’s battered little Ford arriving along the road below and stopping beside the Land Rover. He sprinted down to meet him.

  “You’ve to go straight to headquarters,” said Dick. “Daviot’s in a right taking.”

  “It’s probably about this business of Blair getting Cyril to follow me,” said Hamish.

  Dick looked uneasy. “He seemed right furious with you. Do you want me to come with you?”

  “Where are Sonsie and Lugs?”

  “In the Land Rover.”

  “You look after them. I’ve probably got to write a report.”

  The fact that Daviot’s secretary, Helen, greeted him with a welcome smile made Hamish uneasy. The only times that Helen had ever smiled on him were when he was in trouble.

  After fifteen minutes, he was ushered in.

  “This is terrible,” said Daviot.

  “Mr. Blair did this before. I mean, got someone to report on me.”

  “That is being dealt with. This latest thing is worse. We have received a phone call saying that you knew of Sessions’s identity and said you would blow his head off.”

  “That would be the librarian, Hetty Dunstable,” said Hamish. “She phoned me to say that she thought Sessions was spying on me because he kept asking her questions about me.”

  “She said you seemed aware of his identity.”

  “Sir, I was mildly irritated, that is all.”

  “I am sending men to the station to collect your guns for analysis. I want you to write a full report.”

  Hamish lost his temper, his face flaming as red as his hair. “I have worked hard as a police sergeant,” he said. “I have never harmed anyone. If Sessions continued to annoy me, I would simply have sent in a report.”

  “Then write your report now,” snapped Daviot. “You are suspended from duties until further enquiries.”

  Hamish went downstairs to the detectives’ room where Jimmy Anderson was scowling at a computer screen.

  “I heard the news,” said Jimmy. “Who is this woman who’s making all the trouble?”

  “Hetty Dunstable. She’s the librarian at Braikie library. She asked me to a party last year and came on to me. Took it bad when I didn’t find her in the least attractive. This is spite. I’m suspended from duty. Now I’ve got to write a report.”

  “Go and do it from the police station,” said Jimmy. “You can send it over.”

  “What worries me,” said Hamish, “is the spin Blair will put o
n his behaviour. He’ll try to justify the closing down of the police station, saying he was trying to save the force money. The only thing that’s saved me so far is that no one else wants to police Sutherland. Has anyone searched Cyril’s belongings?”

  “Not yet. His only living relative is his mother. She’s on her way up from Perth. I was just about to go there.”

  “I’d like a look at his stuff.”

  “You can’t. You’re suspended from duty.”

  “Just a wee look.”

  “Run along. But if anyone reports you, say you did it before you knew you were suspended.”

  The day had turned as grey as Hamish’s mood. He parked the Land Rover at the police station and then walked along to Mrs. Mackenzie’s as a fine drizzling rain began to fall, shrouding the mountains that loomed over the village.

  Mrs. Mackenzie let Hamish into the house, demanding to know when she could let the room again.

  “Och, you’ll need to wait until detectives have looked around as well.”

  Grumbling under her breath, Mrs. Mackenzie unlocked the door to Cyril’s room.

  Hamish walked in and shut the door in her face. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went straight to Cyril’s backpack, which was lying in a corner.

  It was closed with a small padlock. He took out a Swiss knife and, selecting the thinnest blade, sprang the lock. He searched through a jumble of socks, underwear, and sweaters. There seemed to be nothing of interest. No notebook or photographs. He opened the curtained cubicle which served as wardrobe. Two jackets, two pairs of trousers, and an anorak were hanging there. He searched the pockets without finding even a receipt. Two pairs of trainers and a pair of black shoes were lying on the floor. In one of the trainers, he found a slip of paper. A Strathbane phone number was scrawled on it.

  There was no sign of a camera or a computer. Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his fiery hair. There must be something in Cyril’s life to have prompted his murder.

  He looked down from the window. Jimmy was just climbing out of a car with another detective. Two policemen drew up in a car behind them.

  Hamish put the slip of paper in his pocket, left the room, ran along the passage outside, pushed open a fire door at the end, and made his way down to the back garden. He scaled the garden wall and made his way to the police station over the fields at the back.

  Dick was standing in the kitchen, mixing something up in a bowl with a wooden spoon while the dog and cat looked up at him hopefully.

  “I hear you’ve been suspended,” said Dick.

  “Who told you?”

  “Copper friend o’ mine.”

  “What are you doing?”

  “I’m trying my hand at scones,” said Dick. “The Currie sisters gave me their recipe.”

  Hamish half closed his eyes. It should be a pretty woman standing there with the mixing bowl. Not some chubby policeman.

  “Leave it,” he said. “There’s a librarian at Braikie, Hetty Dunstable. She landed me in this mess. She told headquarters I had threatened to shoot Cyril. I think she’s got a spite against me because I spurned her advances.”

  Dick grinned. “That’s an old-fashioned way o’ putting it. Did you cast her off like a worn-out glove?”

  “Whatever. Look, no one said anything about you being suspended, so get over there and see if you can charm her into repairing the damage.”

  “What about my scones?”

  Hamish told him crudely where to put his scones, and Dick slammed down the bowl and left in a huff.

  When Hamish had finished typing up his report, he took out the slip of paper he had found in Cyril’s trainer and looked at it. He should have left it where it was for Jimmy to find, but he was angry at being suspended and wanted to show Strathbane that Hamish Macbeth was too valuable a policeman to be kept off the case.

  Then he thought, if the phone number led to anything, he would need to explain where he got it. He could always say he found it outside the police station after Cyril had taken that photograph. But it was raining and the paper was dry. His face cleared. Archie Maclean could always say he found it on his boat and passed it on to Hamish.

  He read over his report and began to feel uneasy. What if they checked the police station phone to make sure he had really been called out and had not been luring Cyril to a remote spot to bump him off?

  He put a fresh tape in his answering machine. Disguising his voice and speaking in Gaelic, he gave yesterday’s date and a time of ten minutes past nine. He would give Jimmy the tape and hope that his phone would not be further investigated.

  He then dialled the operator, identified himself, and gave the phone number on the slip of paper, asking for the name and address belonging to the number. The operator said she would call him back for security reasons, to make sure he really was who he said he was.

  Hamish waited patiently. When the phone rang, he seized it. “The number is that of an M. Bentley, Number Fifteen, Sheep Street, Strathbane,” she said. Hamish thanked her and then got out a street map of Strathbane. Sheep Street was in the old part of town, a nucleus of little streets off the main shopping area.

  He knew he should really pass this information on to Jimmy, but his highland curiosity was demanding that he find out for himself.

  He changed out of his uniform into civilian clothes. He called on Archie Maclean, who agreed to say the paper had been found on his boat. Dick had taken the Land Rover, so, telling Sonsie and Lugs to stay behind and behave themselves, he got into Dick’s old car and set out for Strathbane.

  Dick parked outside the library and went in. A pretty girl was stacking the shelves. Dick approached her. “Miss Dunstable?”

  “Not me,” she said. “I’m just the assistant. Hetty’s off today. She’s awfy upset at her boyfriend being murdered.”

  “I’ll need to be having a wee word with her,” said Dick. “Give me the lassie’s address.”

  “She’s got a wee bungalow on the shore road. It’s called Atlantic View. She got it on the cheap ’cos no one wants to live there.”

  “Why not? It used to be flooded but now they’ve got that new seawall.”

  “Aye, but the waves are higher every year and folk say the wall isn’t high enough. Last winter, the waves got over it twice.”

  “What’s your name?” asked Dick.

  “Shona Macdonald.”

  “Get on all right with Miss Dunstable?”

  “Aye. She really loves books. When it’s quiet, she reads the whole time.”

  “What does she read?” Shona had large blue eyes in a little heart-shaped face.

  Wish I wasn’t so old, thought Dick ruefully.

  “She likes romances, but the old-fashioned kind. Hearts and flowers. No Fifty Shades of Grey. She thought that book was disgusting and tried to have it banned. But she couldn’t because a lot of people wanted it. When the provost’s wife asked for a copy, I thought Hetty was going to burst into tears.”

  “I’ll be having a word with her,” said Dick. Those eyes of Shona’s were so very blue, like Lochdubh on a summer’s day.

  “Isn’t it boring work for a pretty girl like you?” he asked.

  “Oh, no,” said Shona. “I read a lot and I like chatting to people. It’s not usually so quiet as this.” She glanced at the clock. “I’d better lock up. It’s my lunch hour.”

  “I’m feeling a wee bit peckish,” said Dick. “Fancy a bite to eat?”

  “All right. I usually go to Jean’s café next door. She’s got good mutton pies and not the shop ones, either.”

  “Sounds great,” said Dick. He told himself he was only doing his job. The more he could find out about Hetty before actually meeting her, the better. But when Shona collected her coat and handbag and locked up the library, he noticed the sun had come out and was shining on her glossy black curls, and he felt his fifty-one years melting away and suddenly he was young again.

  Chapter Three

  There’s no art

  To find t
he mind’s construction in the face.

  —Shakespeare

  Sheep Street appeared to be in the throes of gentrification. At the corner, the bakery was selling croissants. Croissants always came just before the builders, reflected Hamish. In fact, people sometimes talked of their area being “croissantified.”

  It was a small street with sandstone villas on either side. Builders were working on a few, and others had several doorbells, showing where the villas had been cut into small flats. Hamish was surprised that there was enough money in financially depressed Strathbane to gentrify anything.

  He found the address he was looking for. This villa had been recently renovated. There was only one doorbell at the side of a gleaming black-painted door embellished with a large brass lion’s-head knocker.

  Hamish rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall woman with long straight brown hair, high cheekbones, and eyes as grey as the North Sea.

  “Do you know a policeman called Cyril Sessions?” asked Hamish.

  “Who are you?”

  Her accent was Scottish. Because of her appearance, Hamish had expected her to have an Eastern European accent.

  He produced his warrant card, which Daviot had neglected to confiscate. “I am a policeman from Lochdubh,” he said. “I am investigating the murder of Cyril Sessions. He had a note of your phone number.”

  “Why aren’t you in uniform?”

  “Plainclothes,” said Hamish, desperately beginning to wish he had turned his information over to Jimmy. “Who are you?”

  “I am Anna Eskdale. I work for Mr. Bentley.”

  “May I speak to Mr. Bentley?”

  “Wait there. I will see if he is available.”

  She shut the door. Hamish waited patiently. A watery sunlight was gilding the cobbles, and the air was full of the noise of builders’ radios and grinding machinery.

  A seagull landed on the ground at Hamish’s feet and surveyed him with prehistoric eyes. “Go away. I havenae anything for you,” said Hamish.