Death of a Policeman (Hamish Macbeth)

by Beaton, M. C.

  Hamish looked around. There was a window behind the desk but it was barred. He went over and stood behind the door. It might just work. He was sure the female voice had belonged to Anna Eskdale. But he then thought that it was only in movies that no one looked round the door. He cautiously opened it, slid out into the corridor, dived into the nearest storeroom, and crouched down behind a pile of boxes.

  He heard them come back, the jingle of keys, and then the office door being opened. “Nothing here,” said a man’s voice.

  Anna’s voice again. “Try the sheds at the back. That’s the last place we want him to see.”

  Now, that’s interesting, thought Hamish. He waited until he heard a door at the far end of the corridor open and close and then hurried back to the restaurant.

  As he entered, it was suddenly like a game of musical chairs. It was as if all the waiters had suddenly frozen before going about their work.

  “I’ve signed twenty books,” said Angela, her face pink with pleasure.

  “Good for you,” said Hamish.

  Anna Eskdale came into the restaurant. Before she sat down, her eyes flicked briefly to Hamish.

  What was in those sheds at the back? wondered Hamish. He did not have any evidence to justify a raid on the premises.

  Angela, crumpled up in a corner of the Mercedes on the road home, said, “I feel such a fool, Hamish.”

  “Why? Not your fault it was such a lousy evening.”

  “It’s the money I wasted on this stupid outfit.”

  “You look grand.”

  “I could have worn an old sweater and jeans for all the difference it would have made.”

  “Now, then, you’ll just have to get that man of yours to take you somewhere you can wear it again.”

  “I think the shop overcharged me.”

  “Why would they do that?” asked Hamish.

  “Because the only time you read about authors’ advances in the papers is when they get thousands. People think we’re rolling in it.”

  “I’m sure they didn’t. Relax, Angela. It’s all over and you’ll look grand on the telly.”

  “Can I watch it on Dick’s big flat-screen?”

  “Sure. I’ll give you a spare key in case we’re both out.”

  “Stopped leaving it up on the gutter?”

  “Aye.” Hamish had not but he planned to do so as soon as possible. His thoughts flew back to the restaurant. There had been an air of menace.

  Dick was waiting up for Hamish. He handed him a brochure. “That’s Beryl’s rentals. I went round a few of them. Seems all aboveboard. How was the banquet?”

  “Awful. But wait until you hear this.”

  Hamish told Dick about his adventures and ended by saying, “I’ll phone Jimmy in the morning and see if he can think of some excuse to let us get a look at them. Sonsie and Lugs have a bit too much weight on them. I’m feeling restless. I think I’ll take them for a walk.”

  “It’s one on the morning!”

  “I’m restless. The gale has died down and it’s a grand evening.”

  The animals stretched and yawned and lazily followed him out onto the waterfront.

  Hamish leaned against the waterfront wall and looked around. This was why, he reflected, he could never leave Lochdubh. The crescent of white cottages curved round to the humpbacked bridge at the end of the village. Smoke from peat fires rose lazily up into the vast starry sky. And it was that West Highland smell of home: tar and salt, evergreens and thyme, like no other smell in the world.

  He suddenly found himself thinking of Elspeth Grant with an odd sort of longing. He could almost fancy he saw those strange silvery eyes of hers staring at him.

  At the same time, Sonsie gave a low hiss. Hamish glanced down at his cat and then suddenly ducked. He heard a shot and the wheesh of a bullet passing overhead. He fell to the ground, then scrabbled for his mobile phone and called Strathbane, hugging his pets close to his body.

  He felt a slow burn of anger. He was sure it was connected with that restaurant. Murdo Bentley was so cocky, he felt he could have a policeman killed without anything being traced back to him.

  Jimmy arrived, heading a squad of policemen. He sent them off to search the village and the surrounding countryside. Settled in a chair in Hamish’s kitchen, he opened his coat to reveal he was wearing his pyjamas underneath.

  “Got hauled from my bed,” said Jimmy. “Who do you think is trying to murder you?”

  “Murdo Bentley,” said Hamish, and told Jimmy about his adventures at the restaurant, ending with, “I wonder what’s in those sheds at the back?”

  “We’ve still not got enough for a search warrant,” said Jimmy.

  “And Daviot and his wife were guests of Murdo at the awards,” said Hamish.

  Dick, wrapped in a voluminous dressing gown, put a jug of coffee down on the table. “Nothing stronger?” asked Jimmy.

  “You had the last o’ the whisky last time you were here,” said Dick.

  “Could we say someone saw a man fleeing in the direction of the restaurant and search the damn place?” said Hamish.

  “We might do that,” said Jimmy slowly. “We could say we had an anonymous tip-off that a masked man was seen at the back of the restaurant. I’ll round up the men.”

  There was a different manager from the one Hamish had met before who said he had a flat above the restaurant. He demanded a search warrant and was told it didn’t apply when the life of a policeman had been threatened and that a masked man had been seen near the sheds at the back of the restaurant. The manager was ordered to open them up.

  There were two long sheds at the back, both heavily padlocked. The manager seemed to take a long time finding the keys. At last the doors were opened.

  But the sheds were empty. Under the glare of fluorescent light, there was not even a packing case to be seen.

  “What are these used for?” demanded Jimmy.

  “We keep stores in them from time to time,” said the manager.

  In one of the sheds, Hamish saw a door at the far end. “Where does that lead to?” he asked the manager.

  The man shrugged. “Just out the back.”

  He selected a key, walked to the end of the shed, and opened the door. There was nothing outside but a stretch of moorland. Hamish sniffed the air. “There’s a smell o’ diesel,” he said. “Any trucks been round the back here recently?”

  The manager shook his head. His impassive features betrayed nothing other than a sort of weary interest.

  Hamish unhitched a torch from his belt and went out and began to search the ground. The springy heather betrayed little. He was about to turn away when his torch shone on something. He bent down. It was a red silk ribbon. The manager’s voice behind him made him jump. “Children sometimes play round here,” he said.

  “What is your name?” asked Hamish.

  “Sergei Loncar.”

  The manager stretched out his hand for the ribbon. Hamish ignored him and popped it in a forensic bag.

  “Come on,” urged Jimmy. “There’s nothing here, Hamish.”

  “And don’t you find that odd?” asked Hamish.

  “I’ll get the men back to Lochdubh to see if your attacker left any clues.” Jimmy stifled a yawn. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

  Hamish was roughly awakened the next morning by Dick shaking him. “You’re tae get ower tae Strathbane,” he said. “Daviot’s yelling for ye.”

  After he had hurriedly dressed, Hamish headed for Strathbane, leaving Dick to look after the dog and cat.

  He hoped something had broken, that something incriminating had been found.

  But when he saw the smile on secretary Helen’s face, he knew there was trouble waiting for him in Daviot’s office.

  He entered. Blair was there, sitting on a chair at the side of the superintendent’s desk, a smile on his fat face. Jimmy was standing in front of the desk. Hamish went to stand beside him.

  “Good,” said Daviot. “Now that we are all h
ere, I want to make something very plain. The restaurant, the Seven Steps, has complained of police harassment. You, Macbeth, left the banquet to perform an illegal search of their premises. And ...”

  “And subsequently someone tried to kill me,” said Hamish.

  “Be quiet!” Daviot slammed both hands down on his desk. “This will stop now. Any member of my force who interferes again in the running of the restaurant will lose his job.”

  “Sir,” said Jimmy, “thon maître d’ has vanished and someone took his place on the plane. Hamish, here, heard them saying they hoped we wouldn’t look in the sheds at the back. And ...”

  “And nothing. Nothing was found in the sheds. Probably Macbeth here was nearly hit by a stray bullet by a villager trying to kill a fox. Leave it alone. Now, off you go.”

  They all went out. “Better get back to your sheep,” gloated Blair. “That’s all you’re good for, Macbeth.”

  “Pub. Ten minutes,” whispered Jimmy, and Hamish nodded.

  In the pub, to Jimmy’s surprise, Hamish ordered a whisky. Hamish usually had strict rules about not drinking and driving.

  “Something’s awfy wrong here,” said Hamish slowly. “This is beyond Murdo being a member of the lodge and the Rotary and whateffer. Daviot’s frightened.”

  “What?”

  “I could smell the fear coming off him.”

  “I couldn’t smell a thing,” said Jimmy, lighting a cigarette.

  “You can’t smoke in here!” exclaimed Hamish.

  “Barman turns a blind eye. So let’s say our leader is frightened. Let’s say that Murdo has got to him somehow. How on earth do we prove a thing like that?”

  “You’re in charge of the attempt to kill me. Whether Daviot likes it or not, there has to be a full report as to why all those officers were deployed searching the village and all around. Then you need to put in a report about the search of the sheds. So you type the lot up, I type my version up, you go to put it on his desk when he and Helen are out for lunch or something, and you bug his office.”

  “This isnae a James Bond movie. Where would I get a bug? Oh, we might have something in stores but I’d need tae sign in triplicate and anyway, I couldnae get one of those without the proper authorisation.”

  “It’s all right. Dick’s got the goods.”

  “Dick!”

  “Aye, he won a James Bond quiz a while back and got all these gadgets.”

  “Are you sure about Daviot?”

  “Can you think of any other reason why he should clamp down on the whole thing?”

  “I’ll give it a try,” said Jimmy reluctantly. “But if he finds this bug, it’s all your fault. You haven’t finished your whisky.”

  “I’ve gone off the idea. You have it.”

  Dick was out when Hamish returned to the police station, as were the dog and cat. Hamish searched his room until he found the spy equipment. He raced back to Strathbane after phoning Jimmy, who agreed to meet him on the road just outside of the town.

  “This is the easiest one,” said Hamish. “You put this bug anywhere on his phone line. You don’t even need to take the phone apart. Then we park round the back of headquarters and listen in on this UHF transmitter.”

  “Is it legal?” asked Jimmy.

  “Of course it isn’t. These things are illegal unless you’re outside the EU.”

  “Look, Hamish, the lunch hour is over. I’ll need to wait until this evening. I haven’t done my report anyway. Besides, tomorrow is my day off. So we can both listen then.”

  “All right,” said Hamish reluctantly. “I’ll meet you tomorrow morning.”

  Dick was back at the police station, rolling pastry and whistling as he worked.

  “Did that other librarian get anything out of Hetty?” asked Hamish.

  Dick blushed. “Not yet. She’s working on it. I saw her at lunchtime.”

  Hamish explained why he had taken the spy equipment.

  “What will you do if you find out Murdo’s got something on him?” asked Dick.

  “Confront him with it.”

  “He may have to resign. He’s pretty useless anyway.”

  “Aye, but he’s our useless,” said Hamish. “A new broom might decide to sell this police station. Let’s see how it goes. What are you making?”

  “I thought some beef Wellington would be grand for dinner.”

  “I won’t be around for dinner. I’ve got to go to Strathbane.”

  “It’s not for you. I invited that librarian for dinner.”

  “Hetty?”

  “No, the other one.”

  “Aha!”

  “Aha, nothing,” said Dick crossly. “You want information? This is ma way o’ getting it. A lot o’ people have called to see if you’re all right. The trouble is there’s that big dog fox that’s been haunting the village. Folk think a bullet went astray and they’re not going to own up. Oh, and Mr. Johnson phoned. He said there was a lassie at the hotel asking for ye.”

  Hamish phoned the hotel manager. “It’s a tourist,” said Mr. Johnson. “Wants to know all about the area. I gave her maps and brochures but she said maybe the local policeman might have a more personal knowledge. She’s quite a looker.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Katerina Drinsky.”

  Hamish’s suspicions rose. A beautiful girl with a foreign name suddenly turns up and wants the local policeman.

  “I’ll be right up,” he said.

  He had expected a tall beauty like Anna Eskdale, but Katerina was small and a blonde with large blue eyes with a black ring round the iris. Mr. Johnson led him into the hotel lounge and introduced him.

  “Why do you want a policeman to tell you about the neighbourhood?” said Hamish, removing his cap and sitting down opposite her.

  “These leaflets are so ... well ... impersonal,” she said.

  Her voice had a lowland accent.

  “Where are you from?” asked Hamish.

  “My family is from Poland originally.”

  “You speak English very well.”

  She gave a gurgle of laughter. “I should. I am an English teacher. I was brought up in Scotland.”

  “And what is your interest in the Highlands at this cold, dreary time of year?”

  “I have always been in love with the romance of the Highlands—Bonnie Prince Charlie, Robert Burns ...”

  “Robert Burns was an Ayrshire man.”

  “I meant Rob Roy.”

  “Rob Roy was a two-faced cattle thief and he hailed from the Trossachs, well south of here, in fact, about half an hour’s drive from Glasgow.”

  She looked at him sadly. “I see I cannot deceive you.”

  “Why should you even try?” asked Hamish.

  “The truth hurts.”

  “Try me.”

  “I have run away from my husband. This was as far as I could think to go. To be safe, I thought it might be a good idea to get friendly with a policeman.”

  “And where is your husband?”

  “In Edinburgh. We are both second-generation Polish.”

  “So you could take out a restraining order against him.”

  “I did that. But he still frightens me.”

  Hamish took out his notebook. “Is Drinsky your married name?”

  “Yes, but ...”

  “Address? The one in Edinburgh.”

  “One-Sixty-Five-B Herry Street,” she said in a low voice.

  “And whereabouts in Edinburgh is that?”

  “Off Leith Walk.”

  “And are you really an English teacher?”

  She burst into tears.

  Hamish watched her carefully. He signalled to Mr. Johnson, who was lurking at the doorway.

  “We need a box of tissues,” he said.

  A honey trap, thought Hamish. And a very clumsy one, too. When the box of tissues arrived, he said harshly, “Dry your eyes and stop acting!”

  Then there came the sound of raised voices. A burly young man erupted int
o the room and raced towards Katerina. “Slut!” he yelled.

  Hamish tripped him up, dropped on top of him, and handcuffed him.

  He looked up at Katerina. “Is this your husband?”

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  So much for my bloody highland intuition, thought Hamish. He called Strathbane and said he was bringing someone in. A charge of attempted assault.

  It turned out to be a weary day for Hamish. Katerina had inherited a Polish supermarket from her father. She had the money. Her husband was an unemployed layabout. She was trying to get a divorce and he had threatened to kill her. As he was considered a threat to her, he was locked up in the cells pending his appearance at the sheriff’s court in the morning.

  He had to type up his report, drive Katerina back to the hotel, and sit listening to her story of abuse, advising her to get a better lawyer than the one she had employed, before gently making his departure.

  He phoned Jimmy and said he would meet him at nine o’clock. Wearing casual clothes, he set off for Strathbane, taking his pets with him.

  Hamish met Jimmy in the car park at the back of police headquarters. “Have you put the bug in?” asked Hamish.

  “Not yet. And his office door is locked.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll say I’ve called to add a bit to that earlier report of attempted assault. Give me the bug.”

  “If you’re caught,” said Jimmy nervously, “then you havenae seen me.”

  Hamish went straight into headquarters and made his way up the stairs to Daviot’s office. He passed no one on the way.

  He sprang the lock on the office door easily enough and let himself in.

  The room was faintly lit by the glow from a streetlamp outside. He crawled under Daviot’s desk and fitted the small bug to the telephone line.

  He left quietly and softly made his way down the stairs. The door to the detectives’ room was open and Blair was sitting at his desk. Hamish cursed under his breath. He darted past, hurtling down the stairs and out into the night. He hoped he and Jimmy would be able to find something out on the following day.