Hamish went to the church the next morning. He wasn’t religious but felt it his duty to attend and add another body to the congregation because he liked Mr. Wellington, the minister. The day was cold with thick mist. Mist had crept into the building and lay in bands across the interior of the church. The Currie sisters were there, screeching out the hymns in high falsettos while Mrs. Wellington boomed beside them.
The reading was from Romans about people being like the flowers of the field. The wind passes over them and then they are gone. How many deaths have I dealt with? thought Hamish. At least living in Lochdubh let him keep a mental balance. He knew most policemen working in cities could end up believing everyone was evil, and trusting no one.
When the service was over, he quickly left the church, nipping past the Currie sisters, who were debating the sermon with the minister as usual.
He returned to the police station, collected the dog and cat, and went for a walk along the waterfront. The mist seemed thicker than ever. He hoped it would last all day. The nights were getting lighter, but he knew it would be still dark by six o’clock.
“Don’t get caught,” urged Dick as Hamish set out. “If that one catches ye, she’ll scream rape.”
“I’ll be careful,” said Hamish.
He took Dick’s car and drove to Braikie. Because the mist was still thick, he was only just able to see Diarmuid drive up and collect Hetty.
When they had gone off, he walked round to the road that led to the back of the villa. There were lights in the flats upstairs, but the flat next to Hetty’s was in darkness. He climbed over the gate and went through the garden to the back door. It had only a simple Yale lock, which he sprang easily. Wearing latex gloves, he began his search.
He could not find anything incriminating. He even searched under the mattress in her bedroom. Then he heard the sound of a car arriving and stopping outside. He scuttled through to the kitchen and then stopped as he heard Hetty shouting, “What do you mean your mother doesn’t like me?” And then came Diarmuid’s voice. “Did you need to put so much make-up on? I think we should cool it, Hetty. I’ll phone you.”
“You dump me and look out!” screeched Hetty.
He heard the front door open and then slam. He crept out of the kitchen door, shutting it quietly behind him, and made his way down the garden. It was then that he saw a shed to the left of the gate. The light from the kitchen suddenly streamed down the garden. Hamish nipped over the gate and crouched down. He decided to wait until the coast was clear. He was suddenly determined to see what was in that shed.
He poked his head over the wall. Hetty was sitting at the kitchen table, a glass in her hand.
The evening dragged on. The cold mist seemed to be creeping into Hamish’s very bones. He suddenly flattened himself lower to the ground when he heard the kitchen door open. He heard Hetty come down the garden. He heard the click of a key and the rattle of a chain. She was opening the shed.
He risked a look over the garden wall. She was carrying a large bag. Hetty went into the kitchen and closed the curtains.
What was in the bag? More booze?
Or what if, thought Hamish, his mind making a sudden leap, it contained a shotgun. If Hetty rejected by Cyril had shot him, maybe she planned to do the same to Diarmuid.
He sprinted to his car and drove nearer to her villa with the lights off and waited.
After ten minutes she appeared, carrying the bag. She put it in the boot of her car, got in, and drove off. Hamish let her get a bit ahead and began to follow. But after several turnings, he lost her.
Suddenly afraid, he went straight to Shona’s flat. She would know where Diarmuid lived.
Diarmuid and his mother, Abigail Hendry, were drinking cocoa in front of the television.
“I’m sorry, Mother,” said Diarmuid. “I didn’t know she was such a harridan.”
She was a small woman, neatly dressed with short grey hair in the helmet fashion so beloved of Braikie hairdressers. “Quiet, now, darling. I do so love David Attenborough. Look at the funny penguin.”
There came a hammering at the door. “Who can that be?” wondered Diarmuid.
“Don’t answer!” said his mother sharply. “Someone should have had the decency to phone.”
There then came the sound of breaking glass. Diarmuid ran into the hall in time to see a hand stretch inside the door and unlock it. He stood there, paralysed with fright, as Hetty entered wearing a long cloak.
“Hetty, I’m calling the police,” he babbled.
“What is it, dear?” called his mother.
Hetty thrust Diarmuid aside, went into the living room, took out a sawn-off shotgun from under her cloak, and shot Mrs. Hendry full in the chest.
She reloaded and went back into the hall. Diarmuid had fainted. He was slumped against the wall. He had peed himself, and his trousers were wet.
“Now, you,” said Hetty. “But I want you awake to see this.” There was a vase of flowers on the hall table. She tipped the contents, water, flowers, and all, over him.
He opened his eyes and screamed with fear.
“Think you can dump me,” said Hetty, raising the gun.
Hamish Macbeth hurtled through the open door and crashed his full weight right into Hetty, sending her flying. The gun went skittering across the tiles of the hall. He jumped on top of her, flipped her over, and handcuffed her while she let out a stream of swear words.
When she fell silent, he took out his phone and called Strathbane. “You can just see the tiger closing in on his prey,” said David Attenborough’s voice from the television in the living room.
Hamish looked into the living room and shuddered.
When Hetty was taken off to Strathbane, Hamish sat in Jimmy’s car, feeling sick.
“What put you on to her?” said Jimmy.
“I thought she might have something to do with the death of Cyril. She was getting madder and madder.” Hamish decided to say nothing about having broken into her house. It would mean he would be suspended from duty and possibly sacked. “I arrived when Diarmuid was telling her it was all off. I was heading back to Lochdubh when it suddenly dawned on me that if she had shot Cyril because of rejection, she just might do the same to Diarmuid. I got Diarmuid’s address from Shona. It’s a wonder Hetty didn’t crow over Shona. Maybe she wanted to wait until she got a ring on her finger.”
“Where’s Blair?”
“Off duty.”
“Right,” said Jimmy. “Let’s leave the forensic boys and the pathologist to do their work and get back to Strathbane. I suppose you want to be in on the interview.”
“I want to see if she confesses to murdering Cyril,” said Hamish.
Hetty looked at them with dull eyes when they entered the interview room. A policewoman set up the recording and video equipment, Jimmy went through the formalities, and the questioning began.
“Why did you kill Mrs. Hendry?” he asked.
“Diarmuid would have married me if she hadn’t got in the way,” said Hetty.
“Where did you get the shotgun?”
“Can you bring me my make-up and a change of clothes?” asked Hetty.
“I’m sure that can be arranged,” said Jimmy.
“I’ll be in all the newspapers and on television,” said Hetty.
“So you will,” said Hamish in a soft voice. “Of course, if you confessed to killing Cyril Sessions, you would be world-famous.”
Her eyes glittered. “Really?”
“Oh, yes.”
She banged both hands on the table, making them jump.
“Well, I did!” she said triumphantly.
“We’ll start with the murder of Cyril Sessions. Tell us about that.”
“He made love to me. He said we would go away together. He made me do things in the bedroom no man should ask a decent woman to do.” She smiled. “Anal sex can be very painful, and all that near-strangulation business.”
Poor Betty, thought Hamish. Cyril must have made her fe
el really dirty.
“But then he kept asking and asking about Macbeth. I lost my rag and said I thought he fancied Macbeth, and he said he was on an assignment to spy on him.”
“Why didn’t you tell us this?” asked Hamish.
“Forgot,” said Hetty. “Anyway, when he stopped seeing me or answering my calls and I thought of all the dirty things he’d made me do, I decided the world would be better off without him. I got my gun ...”
“Where did you get the gun?” asked Jimmy.
“It was my father’s. I found it when he died and kept it.”
“What was your father doing with a sawn-off shotgun?”
“He robbed shops and things,” she said airily.
“Name?”
“Gary McCue.”
“That’s not your name.”
“He forgot to marry my mother. I’ve always used her name.”
Jimmy took a deep breath. “So you decided to murder Cyril?”
“I stole a motorbike. I had it all planned. I’m very clever. I went down to Glasgow and bought the helmet and leathers in case you started checking the shops around here. I waited up on the moors where I could see down into Lochdubh. I followed him to that beach and blasted him.”
“But you must have seen me leave and have known he was following me,” said Hamish. “Weren’t you worried I might catch you?”
“I drove across the moors and saw you go on ahead and Cyril go down to that beach. Easy.”
The questioning went on until Jimmy decided to take a break.
Hamish and Jimmy went to the pub. “Think she’s sane?” asked Jimmy.
“Sane enough to go to trial,” said Hamish. “I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive myself. I was so focussed on Murdo or one of his gang being the murderer that I thought she was batty but harmless.”
“I need a stiff drink before we go back in there.”
Blair arrived at headquarters, tipped off about the arrest. Hearing that Jimmy was taking a break from the questioning and determined to seize the glory, he collected Detective Andy McNab and decided to interview Hetty himself.
He roared, he shouted, he fired question after question at her. Hetty began to shake and tremble, no longer sustained with dreams of being a killer celebrity.
The room began to swim around her. She fainted, fell forward, banged her head on the corner of the table, and fell unconscious to the floor.
Blair rushed to get the medical officer. Hamish and Jimmy came back to find chaos and Blair wailing to Daviot that it was an accident. Hetty was rushed to hospital, where she was diagnosed with a severe concussion.
Daviot demanded the recording of the interview. He watched it uneasily. If Hetty got a lawyer, it was possible the police would be blamed for bullying and harassment. He called Blair into his office and said severely, “This is a bad business. It was Macbeth who stopped it turning into two murders. You should have left Anderson and Macbeth to get on with the questioning.”
“I know, sir,” said Blair, all false meekness. “But Macbeth and Anderson had taken off to the pub—and in the middle of an important interview. Very unprofessional. I am right sorry, sir, but I was doing what I thought was my duty, sir.”
“Very well. I will talk to you later. Send Macbeth and Anderson in.”
When Hamish and Jimmy walked in, Daviot looked at them coldly. Hamish was not wearing his uniform, and Jimmy was smelling strongly of whisky.
“If you had both not decided drinking was more important than interviewing a murderer, Mr. Blair would never have had to take over. I am very displeased.”
“We didnae cause the lassie to faint and knock herself out,” said Jimmy.
“I do not think Mr. Blair did, either,” said Daviot. Blair always showed him respect and called him sir, unlike these two mavericks. “Why are you out of uniform, Macbeth?” he asked.
“I just happened to be in Braikie and I was going to have another word with her when I heard her boyfriend dumping her. I suddenly wondered if she had killed Cyril after he rejected her and decided to wait and see what she would do. I followed her when she left but it was thick mist. I found Diarmuid’s address and went there in time to stop her killing Diarmuid Hendry.”
“It’s a pity you didn’t consider her a suspect earlier,” said Daviot.
“If it hadnae been for Hamish, we’d never have got her,” said Jimmy.
“Go and write up your reports,” said Daviot.
After they had gone, Daviot reflected that he hated the way Hamish Macbeth always made him look like a fool. Blair could be awkward but he was always respectful, never forgot Mrs. Daviot’s birthday, and was a good member of the lodge. Somehow, life would be more comfortable without Hamish Macbeth constantly showing up the shortcomings of headquarters. He did not like the fact that Hamish had seen those awful photographs of his wife.
Daviot knew there was a push to sell off police stations. If the police station in Lochdubh was sold off, he was sure Hamish would never accept a transfer to Strathbane. He would leave the police force. He began to make plans.
Hamish returned to the police station after a long night. He had typed his report and then called at the hospital to find that Hetty had suffered bleeding from the brain and was undergoing an operation.
As he got ready for bed, he could hear snores coming from Dick’s bedroom. He reflected sadly that his guilt over introducing Dick to Betty would now stop him from trying to get rid of the man.
He slept for six hours and then rose and dressed and went into the living room. Dick hurriedly switched off the television.
“Anything on the news?” asked Hamish.
“Just a bit.”
“Put it on. It’s coming up to the top of the hour.”
“Wouldn’t you like some breakfast first?”
“Just switch the damn thing on.”
Dick did as he was bid. On Grampian TV, the arrest of Hetty was the first item, and there was Blair flanked by Daviot outside police headquarters.
“Thanks to our expert detective work,” said Daviot, “we have arrested Hetty Dunstable for the murders of Cyril Sessions and Mrs. Abigail Hendry.” Blair smirked modestly at the cameras. “I am not taking any questions at the moment. A full press release will be given to you later.”
“You know,” said Hamish bitterly, “I wouldnae mind a bit o’ credit, just the once. You know what’s up with a lot of police force today, Dick? Promotion is given to the ones who crawl to the hierarchy.”
“But you never want promotion,” said Dick.
“No, but a thank-you wouldn’t go amiss. I’m going out for a walk.”
It was a clear, cold day. The water of the loch lay as calm as a mirror. A car drove up and stopped behind him. Elspeth got out.
“Sent back up here,” she said. “I’ve been to Braikie to talk to the neighbours and by all reports you were the one on the scene and yet Daviot never mentioned you. I’ve sent off a report and film of what the neighbours say.”
“Daviot’ll never forgive me,” said Hamish.
“It goes out on the six o’clock news.”
“I’ll be swamped wi’ the press. I’ll need to go off and hide. Couldn’t you have left me out of it?”
“No. Too good a story. What’s the latest on the mad librarian?”
“The operation was successful. She tried to say that Blair had struck her, until she was told they had the whole thing on tape.”
“If I bring the crew down, Hamish, can I do an interview?”
“No.”
“You know, Hamish, I’ve helped you a lot in the past. I think the least you could do is to help me.”
“I don’t like emotional blackmail,” said Hamish, unconsciously echoing Priscilla, and strode off along the waterfront with his pets scampering at his heels.
Epilogue
I waive the quantum o’ the sin,
The hazard of concealing;
But och! It hardens a’ within,
And petrifies the feeling
!
—Robert Burns
Winter finally loosened its grip on the Highlands. A blustery mild wind bent the daffodils in the Currie sisters’ garden and sent little white choppy waves scurrying across the surface of the loch. The snow retreated up to the tops of the mountains. Fresh green leaves appeared on the rowan trees.
Hamish Macbeth went about his usual duties; a shoplifting case here, a burglary there, and checking sheep dip papers.
The following month he was due to appear in the High Court in Edinburgh as a witness for the prosecution in Hetty’s trial. He reflected sourly that Blair and Daviot would no longer be able to cover up his part in the investigation. Elspeth’s interviews with the neighbours had not appeared. He always wondered if she had got it scrapped and then thought ruefully that it was all he deserved for having been so rude to her.
He was just checking on his sheep one morning when his mobile phone rang. It was Jimmy. “Hetty’s topped herself,” he said.
“How?” asked Hamish.
“Tore strips off her sheets and hanged herself from the bars. Save you a trip to Edinburgh.”
“So it will go down in history that Strathbane solved the case,” said Hamish.
“It’s your own fault for being so unambitious,” said Jimmy heartlessly.
“Did she ever say what she did with that motorbike?”
“Aye, she pushed it over the cliffs up the coast. It’s somewhere at the bottom o’ the Minch. See you.”
Well, that was that, thought Hamish.
Dick decided to go and call on Shona. Not that he was interested in her any more, he thought. But somehow the spring weather tugged at his emotions, waking old feelings.
He patted his brand-new scarlet Ford Fiesta before getting into it. He had appeared on a quiz programme on Grampian TV called Gimme the Answer and the new car had been the result. Grampian TV was the one station where he had not been blacklisted.
Death of a Policeman (Hamish Macbeth) Page 18