Death of a Policeman (Hamish Macbeth)

by Beaton, M. C.

  It has been said of Sutherland that you can experience five climates in one day. A blustery wind had sprung up, whipping up choppy waves on the Atlantic and singing in the heather.

  Hamish turned off the road before they got to Sandybeach and started bumping over the moorland. “Where are we going?” asked Dick.

  “I’ve a feeling that whoever murdered Cyril might have come over the back way on a motorbike. No one in the cottages on the road up said they saw anyone other than Cyril, the Hardys, and then us in the Land Rover.”

  “They’ve asked around Lochdubh,” said Dick. “No one saw anyone watching the police station or Mrs. Mackenzie’s.”

  “Say someone was on a motorbike or a dune buggy,” said Hamish, “all they would have to do was park up on a rise on the moorland overlooking the village. That way they would see Cyril setting off.”

  “Maybe,” said Dick. “But they would see us first and then Cyril following. Who would want to murder Cyril with the police around?”

  “I don’t know,” said Hamish, bringing the Land Rover to a stop. “But say someone had a vantage point where they could see us going past Sandybeach and Cyril turning down to the place.”

  “You’d think we would have heard the shot,” said Cyril.

  “Where we picnicked was sheltered by the cliffs around and the noise of the waves and the seagulls might have drowned the sound. Okay, let’s get out and start searching. Up here is where you can see anyone arriving at the beach.”

  “It’s pretty impossible wi’ all this heather,” grumbled Dick.

  “Keep looking. There might be a damp patch somewhere.”

  The breeze died down and the sun was warm. Sonsie and Lugs chased each other through the heather. Dick began to dream about Shona Macdonald. Did his dyed hair and moustache really make him look younger? Maybe if he lost a few stone in weight, he could lose years in appearance.

  “Got something!” called Hamish, interrupting his dream.

  Dick hurried to join him.

  Where the heather had thinned out, there was a damp patch of ground with a tyre track across it. “Looks like a motorbike,” said Hamish, taking out his phone. He called Jimmy and told him to get someone over immediately to make a plaster cast of the track.

  Once a cast of the track had been taken, searching policemen moved away from the beach area and spread out over the moors.

  Dick’s stomach gave out a grumbling noise. “I suppose you’re hungry,” said Hamish. “We’ll look around a bit more and then get something to eat. Did you bring anything?”

  “No,” said Dick curtly.

  Hamish studied him thoughtfully. Dyed hair and moustache and no food? What was going on?

  “I didnae find Hetty attractive,” commented Hamish cautiously.

  “Neither did I,” said Dick crossly.

  “So what’s wi’ the dyed hair and not eating?”

  “I just felt like it. Okay?”

  “Well, let’s search a bit more.”

  Dick walked away, his head bowed, searching the ground. At last Hamish said, “If you don’t want to eat, I do.” He phoned Jimmy and said they were taking a break.

  Hamish drove to the hotel at Scourie. It was built by the second Duke of Sutherland as a coaching inn and stood on the site of an old fortified house. Hamish and Dick found a table in the dining room. Outside were the white sands of Scourie Bay and the gable-stepped houses of Scourie village. Dick’s stomach gave a fierce rumble as he looked dismally out at the distant tops of Ben Stack, Foinaven, and Arkle.

  “I might just have a roll and butter,” said Dick miserably.

  “Look here,” said Hamish, “I’ve noticed the ladies like you chust the way you are.”

  “What have ladies got to do with it?” demanded Dick.

  “Everything, I would say,” said Hamish.

  “Well, they haven’t!”

  “There’s nothing folk hate more than a bad-tempered man,” said Hamish. “And without food, you’re a menace. Here’s the waiter. Order something, and cheer up!”

  Dick gave in and ploughed his way through three hearty courses. They were just enjoying their coffee in the lounge when Hamish’s phone rang. It was Jimmy. “Would you believe it?” he yelled. “Blair’s back.”

  “Nothing to be done to him for spying on me?” asked Hamish.

  “Daviot said he was only doing his duty as a conscientious officer of the law.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Hamish.

  “You will, too, if Blair has anything to do with it. He’s up here, raging around like a mad bull and demanding to know where you are.”

  “We’re further ower towards Braikie,” said Hamish. “We’ll come and join you. Found anything else?”

  “Nothing, and the weather looks bad.”

  “Be with you as fast as we can.”

  Hamish looked out of the window. The sky had clouded over the vista of lochs and mountains that made up the empty quarter of Sutherland. He paid the bill and reluctantly left the hotel as the rain was beginning to fall.

  By the time they reached the area around Sandybeach, it was to find it deserted. Hamish phoned Jimmy. “Blair said we couldn’t do anything further because of the rain, but he says you’re to stay up there and keep on looking.”

  “Malicious scunner,” said Hamish after he had rung off and conveyed the latest news to Dick. “It’s coming down in torrents now. Let’s go back to Scourie and have some more coffee in case Blair checks at the station in Lochdubh.”

  They returned to Lochdubh after they considered the road home to be safe from Blair skulking around.

  As Hamish was preparing to go out that evening, Dick wondered whether he might just take a trip to Braikie. Perhaps, if he were lucky, he might see Shona walking down the street. Oh, hullo, he would say, ever so casual. In his imagination her face would light up. What about a bit o’ supper? he’d suggest. Soon they would be seated at a candlelit table and ...

  “What are you smiling at?” asked Hamish.

  “I was only thinking of a clever question for a quiz,” said Dick hurriedly. “I might write a book for pub quizzes.”

  “Aren’t there a lot of them?”

  “But I’ve got the name. In fact, there doesn’t seem to be any chance of me being allowed on a TV quiz show again. Strathbane Television said it spoilt the excitement for the viewers when everybody knew I was going to win.”

  “I’m off, then,” said Hamish.

  He was wearing his one good suit, and his red hair had been brushed until it shone like a flame in the kitchen light.

  “Have fun,” said Dick.

  He waited until he heard Hamish drive off and then changed out of his uniform into a blazer, flannels, white shirt, and silk tie. Dick was heading out the door when he realised that Sonsie and Lugs were following him. Dick cursed under his breath. If he left them behind, they could get out through the flap and would probably head for the Italian restaurant. Hamish would no doubt get to hear of it.

  He gloomily let them into the back of his car. “I’m nothing more than an animal keeper,” he grumbled.

  Dick had forgotten how empty Braikie could be in the evening. He drove slowly up the main street and then took to the side streets, always looking to left and right in the hope he might catch a glimpse of Shona.

  At last he drove back to the main street and parked the car. The dog and cat shifted restlessly in the back. His conscience pricked him. How old was Shona? Late twenties. What sort of policeman was he? He hadn’t looked for a wedding ring or even an engagement ring.

  “Come on, beasties,” he said, letting the dog and cat out. “I’ll get you some fish-and-chips.”

  Fortified with a large packet of fish-and-chips and a bottle of Irn-Bru, Dick felt as if he had been restored to sanity. What on earth had he been thinking of? He had just turned fifty-one.

  He gathered up the greasy papers—Sonsie had enjoyed a fish and Lugs, a deep-fried haggis slice—and crossed to a waste bin. The
n he froze. Beside the waste bin was a pub, and as he was about to turn away, the door opened and Shona emerged with a handsome young man.

  “Why it’s yourself!” cried Shona. “What are you doing in Braikie?”

  “Just checking the streets,” said Dick, “but it all seems quiet.”

  “Are those your animals?” Sonsie and Lugs had crossed the road and were staring up at her.

  “They’re Hamish Macbeth’s,” said Dick. “He’s out tonight so I’m stuck with them.”

  “What a magnificent cat! It’s very big.”

  “Looks just like a wild cat,” said her companion.

  “No, no,” said Dick quickly. “Just big.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Shona. “I forgot to introduce you. This is my brother, Kelvin. Kelvin, this is that nice policeman, Mr. Fraser, that I told you about.”

  Dick heartily shook Kelvin’s hand. Her brother! He glanced down at her hands. There was a garnet ring on the fourth finger of her right hand. No engagement ring, no wedding ring. All his good resolutions disappeared and his heart sang.

  Hamish and Priscilla entered the brasserie. The room was dark, lit only with single candles on each table.

  Priscilla was wearing a black sheath dress and high heels. Hamish saw the men casting admiring glances in her direction. He often wondered why she was still single. Perhaps potential suitors were put off by her sexual coldness. It was that coldness that had made him break off their engagement. And yet, part of him still longed for a passionate Priscilla that did not exist.

  Hamish peered at the menu. “The prices are pretty steep,” he said. “I thought the brasserie was supposed to be cheaper than the dining room.”

  “I’m paying,” said Priscilla.

  “Oh, no you’re not,” said Hamish huffily. “The place is crowded. I don’t know how they can all afford it.”

  “It’s a special offer evening. Get the waiter to take away the à la carte menu and bring us the set menu.”

  When the set menu appeared, it turned out to be only twenty-five pounds a head. “I saw this menu advertised in the Highland Times before we left,” said Priscilla. “It looks not bad.”

  The menu offered a choice of two starters: venison pâté or cock-a-leekie soup. The main dishes were either braised kidneys or roast chicken and the dessert: sherry trifle or chocolate gâteau. Probably the cheapest ingredients they could think of, thought Hamish.

  At Priscilla’s urging, he ordered a carafe of red wine instead of one of the bottles on offer, because the prices were outrageous.

  While they ate venison pâté and braised kidneys, Pricilla talked about gossip from the hotel and Hamish half listened while stretching his policeman’s antennae round the room. But it was all very middle-class highland Scottish. It was hard to make out people clearly in the dimness. Hamish had a good memory for villains and a good nose for smelling out the ones who had so far flown beneath the radar. But all seemed so respectable.

  After they had finished their coffee, Hamish said, “Well, thanks for the idea, Priscilla, but I can’t get even one sniff of wrongdoing.”

  He called for the bill. Then his eyes sharpened. “What’s up?” asked Priscilla.

  “Something’s odd. The waiter went to ring up our bill and the maître d’ said something to him and picked up the phone. The waiter stopped trying to get the bill.”

  “Is your credit card maxed out?” asked Priscilla.

  “No, I didn’t give it to him. I was waiting for him to bring his machine over to the table.”

  They waited. Then Hamish gave an impatient noise and made to rise to his feet. The maître d’ came hurrying over. “Mr. Macbeth,” he said with a smile. “Our owner, Mr. Bentley, says that you are our guests for the evening.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Hamish. “I am a policeman and I can’t accept freebies. Thank him very much but bring me the bill right away.”

  “But, sir ...”

  “Do as you’re told,” snapped Hamish.

  Priscilla looked amused. “Hamish Macbeth, the famous moocher of the Highlands, turning down a free meal!”

  “This is great,” said Hamish. “Did you book the table under my name?”

  “No, under mine.”

  “There is probably a CCTV camera somewhere scanning the guests so that Bentley can know who is in his restaurant. I wonder if Cyril ate here.”

  The bill arrived. Hamish scanned it to make sure he was being charged for everything and then paid.

  In the car on the road back, Priscilla said, “Maybe he was just being generous. Surely a lot of these places like to cosy up to the police for security reasons.”

  “Maybe, but this stinks, somehow. Murdo Bentley gave me the creeps. I wonder if he’s offered free hospitality to anyone other than Cyril, like Blair or Daviot.”

  “Wouldn’t they refuse just like you?”

  “Not if Murdo was a member of their lodge or Rotary Club. We all help each other, type of thing. Daviot wouldn’t see anything wrong with it if that were the case. The well-heeled of Strathbane are a very small community.”

  “How are you going to go with this?”

  “I don’t know. I’ll talk it over with Jimmy.”

  Hamish arrived home to find that Dick had shaved off his moustache. He was lounging in a sofa in the living room with the large cat draped over his lap like a rug and the dog at his feet. Sonsie opened one eye, looked at Hamish, and went back to sleep again.

  “Can I get you something?” asked Dick.

  “No, I’m fine. Why did you shave off your moustache?”

  “Felt like a change. I think I’ll let the black hair grow out.”

  “Good idea,” said Hamish. He thought Dick’s face looked almost babyish and naked without the moustache.

  He went through to the police office and phoned Jimmy. Jimmy listened to Hamish’s suspicions about Murdo.

  “I can’t really see us doing anything about it,” said Jimmy. “The man’s as clean as a whistle. I think you’re out on a limb there, Hamish. But we may have a lead. Sam’s Rides over at Dornoch reported the theft of a motorbike four days ago.”

  “What make?”

  “A Honda CB1000.”

  “What time of day did the theft take place?”

  “Bang in the middle of the day. One of the staff had been letting a customer go for a test drive. They went into the office to get out the paperwork. The idiot salesman left the keys in the ignition. Next thing they know someone in leathers and a helmet roared off with it. Get over there tomorrow and have a word with them.”

  “What about the autopsy?”

  “Pretty much what the killing looked like—a shotgun blast to the chest.”

  “Okay, Jimmy, I’ll go there tomorrow.”

  “Have you interviewed that librarian?”

  “Dick spoke to her. Cyril bedded her and then left her flat. Dick got her to sign a statement saying she had lied about me which is why I’m back on the job. Didn’t Daviot tell you?”

  “I was told by Helen that you were to be given a second chance.”

  “Bitches to the right o’ me and bitches to the left o’ me,” said Hamish moodily.

  “And tell Dick to get back to the library and talk to Hetty again. See if she had any inkling that Cyril was on drugs.”

  “Anything been found in his blood?”

  “They’re checking. It isn’t CSI: Miami. It’s Scotland. Takes forever.”

  The following morning, Hamish told Dick he was to go to the library to talk once more to Hetty.

  Dick looked elated. “Glad to,” he said.

  “You’re not sweet on Hetty, are you?”

  “No! You have to be joking.”

  Dick retreated to look out his best uniform, one he hardly ever wore, considering it wasted on the usual sort of jobs he was asked to perform. When he emerged it was to find that Hamish had left and had taken the dog and cat with him.

  He set off for Braikie on a sunny day. The sky above was clear blue a
nd the two mountains that loomed over the village had a covering of snow on their peaks.

  Dick was in such a good mood that he even stopped on the waterfront to say good morning to the Currie sisters.

  “What have you done to your hair?” asked Nessie.

  “Hair?” echoed her sister.

  “It grows in black from time to time,” said Dick defensively.

  “Nonsense. That’s one bad dye job,” said Nessie.

  “Bad dye job,” murmured Jessie.

  Dick let in the clutch and roared off, his face flaming. The dye was supposed to be temporary and wash out after several shampoos. Dick got as far as the Tommel Castle Hotel when he suddenly made a U-turn and raced back to the police station. Once inside, he stripped off, went into the shower, and shampooed his hair vigorously as rivulets of black dye coursed down his plump body. He finally towelled his hair dry and saw to his relief that most of the dye had gone.

  But the exercise of having to race back to the police station to get rid of the dye had sobered his elation. He vowed to be sensible. Shona was not for him. He would do his duty and talk to the horrible Hetty. He reflected that maybe Blair had some sort of hold over Cyril. Otherwise, why would an Adonis like Cyril go so far as to seduce Hetty?

  Chapter Four

  Come, and take a choice of all my library,

  And so beguile thy sorrow.

  —Shakespeare

  Hamish arrived at Sam’s Rides in Dornoch. It was on the outskirts of the town. Sam Buchan, the owner, seemed pleased to see him. He was a big highlander with a shock of grey hair and hands like spades.

  “I thocht the police had forgotten about thon theft,” he said. “Cheeky sod. Nipped the bike from under ma nose.”

  “Do you have CCTV?” asked Hamish.

  “Aye. I kept thon tape. Come into the office and have a look.”

  Hamish’s heart sank when he saw the tape. It must have been used over and over again and it was like looking at the film through a snowstorm. A dim figure in helmet and leathers mounted the bike and roared off.

  “Did you ask in the town if anyone had seen this biker on foot?”