Death of an Honest Man

by M C Beaton

  Standing at the podium, Charlie glared at them all. “Murderers!” he shouted. “That’s what you are. You can kill with words and you damn near did. Step forward, Nessie Burns.”

  A cheeky-faced moppet with hair tied up with tartan ribbons stepped forward followed by her father. “Does it make you proud to have nearly caused the death of a boy?” yelled Charlie. “You should be locked up!”

  The father raised his fists. “Oh, come on, mate,” said Charlie. “I’d love to arrest you. Now hear this. The father won’t sue unless…unless this happens again. Geddit?”

  A scrawny woman said, “Children are innocent creatures.”

  “Pah! This age? They are feral monsters. Now get your phones and bugger off and never, ever let this happen again.”

  Charlie strode out. He was determined to keep an eye on the boy. But his heart sang. Her name was Annie West and she was from South Uist. Like Charlie, she was beginning to hate the job. And, oh, blessed angels! The vision was having dinner with him that very evening.

  * * *

  Hamish was chilled to the bone and wondered what had happened to the summer when he arrived back at the police station that evening. He got out of his uniform and hung it up to dry. Then he had a hot shower and put on old clothes, wondering where that phone of English’s could be. Probably down another bog. It seemed as if everything anyone wanted rid of had come out of that bog—fridge, cooker, skeleton of a cow, two dogs—but no phone or sword.

  He noticed that Sally was missing and assumed the little poodle was up at the castle with Charlie. Lugs didn’t seem to mind. It was almost as if the odd dog with the blue eyes was happy to have his master all to himself.

  As he walked into his living room, he realised it was bathed in a golden glow. He went back out and opened the kitchen door. The evenings never get dark in the summer in the far north of Scotland.

  The sun was turning the loch into molten gold. All the black clouds had rolled away and the air was sweet and fresh: full of the smells of tar, seaweed, wild thyme, and the pine forests on the other side of the loch.

  He stood there for a long time, a half smile on his face, when all at once he felt menace coming from somewhere. His thoughts flew to Blair. He went indoors and fried up two slices of haggis and a couple of eggs and tomatoes for his supper. He then cooked some deer’s liver for Lugs.

  He could not believe in such a miracle change in Blair, as reported by Jimmy. He still felt uneasy when he had finished eating so he walked back out to the waterfront. Then he saw Blair. He was peering through the windows of the Italian restaurant, a brooding look of malice on his face. Blair turned and saw him and went rapidly to his car, jumped in, and drove off.

  Hamish opened the door of the restaurant and walked in. Charlie and Annie were at a corner table, so wrapped up in each other they weren’t even aware of his approach.

  “Charlie,” said Hamish sharply, “Blair’s haunting you. He was outside the window a few moments ago, looking like the first murderer. His wife says he’s off the booze and behaving like a lamb, but I can’t believe it.”

  “Want to join us?” asked Annie.

  “No, I’ve just eaten. Do be careful, Charlie.”

  “Jimmy was trying to get you earlier. He’s up at the bog. They’ve found a phone.”

  “Is Jimmy still up there?”

  “He’s thirstily heading for your kitchen.”

  Hamish hurried back to the police station in time to meet Jimmy. “I’ve heard about the phone,” he said.

  “It’s gone down to Glasgow by special courier to some expert. Maybe we’ll get a break at last. What about a wee dram?”

  “Wee it’ll have to be. Come ben. I’m worried about Blair.”

  “Why? He’s off the booze. Behaving like an angel. Talk o’ the station.”

  “I don’t believe it,” said Hamish. “Yon scunner must be on something. I saw him watching Charlie through the restaurant window this evening and he looked evil.”

  “A bit mair whisky, man! That’s an eyedropperful. Better. Cheers. Rumour has it that Charlie has fallen for big Annie from the isles. Stands to reason. She’s like a female Charlie.”

  “Could Blair be on some sort of drug?”

  “Get that wife o’ his to search. She’s a pal o’ yours.”

  Jimmy’s phone rang. He listened and when he had rung off, he said, “Summoned by Blair. Both of us wanted at headquarters.”

  Hamish was following Jimmy out of the village when he suddenly screeched to a halt and sounded the horn. Jimmy stopped, got out, and came back, saying, “What’s up?”

  “That,” said Hamish, pointing.

  “That” was a classic scarlet phone box.

  “So what?” demanded Jimmy. “His hands were handcuffed behind his back.”

  “His nose wasn’t,” said Hamish. “Or he could have got a pen out of his breast pocket with his teeth. Jimmy, please get them to dust it in the morning. The locals all have smartphones now but the tourists like it.”

  * * *

  Charlie was emerging from the restaurant, his arm around Annie’s shoulders, when a sneering voice stopped him in his tracks. “My, if it isnae Sir Galahad hisself wi’ the office bicycle.”

  Blair confronted them, a fat grin on his face. Charlie looked him up and down and then before Blair could move, Charlie pinioned his arms by his side, carried him easily down the steps to the loch, waded in, and ducked the raging detective under the water.

  When Blair emerged spluttering, Charlie said, “That should clean your dirty mouth out.”

  Charlie was strolling back to join Annie when Blair shouted, “Turn around!”

  Turning slowly round, Charlie found himself looking into the barrel of a revolver. The fact that the revolver was wet didn’t help because he knew most modern guns can fire underwater.

  “You’re toast,” jeered Blair. “You and that whore. As far as I’m concerned, all you teuchters should be dropped in the Minch. I’m defending myself, see? You assaulted your superior officer. I just happened to find this revolver up on the moors and I felt obliged to shoot you right in the balls. Am I loving this!”

  He pulled the trigger. Charlie leapt to the side and the bullet whizzed harmlessly past him. Mad with rage, Blair raised the gun to fire again when the little poodle Sally sank her small sharp teeth into his ankle. He kicked the poodle savagely away but it returned and bit him again. He turned to bring the butt of the gun down on the dog’s head but Charlie dived for his legs and sent him flying back into the loch. Annie ran down and into the loch. She was wearing a long white chiffon dress. The locals who were now crowding the waterfront said later she looked like one of them Greek goddesses. She bent down and felt underwater. Blair let out an animal scream of pain. Then she held up the revolver and handed it to Charlie just as Hamish came driving up, siren going and lights flashing.

  Jimmy Anderson followed behind. “He attacked me. I had tae defend maself,” shouted Blair.

  “Excuse me,” said a dapper little man, joining them. “I am Joseph White, lawyer, on holiday and I heard that officer insult ethnic minorities, threaten the tall policeman with a gun, and insult the lady by calling her a whore and the office bicycle. A number of us have recorded it on our phones as evidence.”

  “Detective Chief Inspector Blair,” said Jimmy, “you are under arrest.”

  “Piss off!” roared Blair.

  Charlie swung him round and handcuffed him while Jimmy read out the caution.

  * * *

  “Well,” said Jimmy later when they were seated in a pub near police headquarters, “who’d have thought he’d go that far? Maybe he murdered Paul English. Wouldn’t that be lovely? He’s out on his ear now. He cannae wiggle out o’ this one. But did you see Annie when her dress was wet? Man, that’s the sort you slay dragons for.”

  “Stop drooling. Charlie’s coming back wi’ the drinks.”

  “I’ve been thinking,” said Charlie, “the enquiry starts tomorrow with all the bloody
forms in triplicate and it’s going to go on for days. I’m suspended from duty and so is Annie.”

  “So you both go to the doctor,” said Hamish, “and claim you are suffering from post-traumatic stress and need at least a week away from bureaucracy. Where’s Annie now?”

  “Just walked in the door.” All the men got to their feet. She had changed back into uniform and her hair was pushed up under her cap.

  “Oh, no,” groaned Hamish. “You’re too healthy. Take her away, Charlie, and show her what tae do. What is it, Jimmy?”

  Jimmy had just rung off and was signalling for Charlie and Annie to wait. “That was the big boss,” he said. “He wants to see the pair of you.”

  “Okay,” said Hamish. “Annie, get back into that white dress and muss up your hair and cling to Charlie like a broken reed.”

  Jimmy snorted. “Broken reed. You’ve been reading The People’s Friend again.” People’s Friend specialises in romantic stories and as it is about the last magazine to do so, it sells all over the world.

  * * *

  Daviot looked in dismay at what appeared to be the wreck of Annie West. His wife had just been on the phone, demanding that Blair get the sack, but Daviot feared Blair still held on to some compromising photos of his wife and reminded her of her past folly to shut her up.

  Daviot rang the buzzer on his desk and his secretary, Helen, came in. “Helen, my dear,” said Daviot, “you remember when Superintendent McTavish visited from Glasgow, he gave us a bottle of Drambuie?”

  “He gave me a bottle, yes,” said Helen.

  “I think we could all do with a wee dram and I saw you still had it and…oh…bring it in and buy yourself another on the road home, and some nibbly bits.”

  The efficient Helen was soon back with glasses, Drambuie, and biscuits and cheese. “Strong smell of onion in here,” she said nastily as she left.

  A pure crystal tear rolled down Annie’s white cheek.

  “Oh, my dear girl, you must not cry,” said Daviot. “I heard when you were on your way here that you are both suffering from post-traumatic stress so I would like you both to take at the very least a week off. Now, Constable West, drink that down.”

  Annie blinked at the size of the measure, guessed that Daviot somehow did not know that Drambuie was a liqueur whisky, and knocked it back.

  “Good girl,” beamed Daviot. “Have another. Help yourself, Carter. Now, we all know that poor Mr. Blair has suffered a severe nervous breakdown.”

  “I am sure he will soon recover in retirement,” said Charlie.

  “Perhaps. But he is a good officer with many years of experience. Let us see how it goes. This is a very smooth drink. Have another.”

  * * *

  Later that evening Jimmy and Hamish were seated in Mary Blair’s flat examining a bottle of pills.

  “I found these under the mattress,” said Mary. “Oh, God, is this what caused him to flip his lid? I’m worried sick they’ll take his job away and I’ll be stuck with him all day.”

  “Where is he at the moment?” asked Hamish.

  “He’s in Raigmore Hospital in Inverness.”

  “There isn’t a possibility that it was Blair who killed English?” said Hamish.

  “I think I would have heard him muttering and threatening.”

  “We’ll get these analysed,” said Jimmy, putting the pills in a forensic bag.

  * * *

  Hamish dropped Jimmy off at headquarters. “You cannae be hoping for much from that phone box,” he said, “if English used a pencil.”

  “I’ve got a geek checking with the phone company on calls made that night from that box and to where and what time.”

  Jimmy wished he’d thought of something so obvious and became angry. “Ye should have told me, Hamish. Stop trying to do my job. Anyway, numpty, ye have tae put money in a phone box.”

  “Not if you dial 999,” said Hamish and drove off.

  * * *

  A week later summer returned to Sutherland, turning it into a blue county. The soaring mountains captured the soft blue of the sky, and out on the Atlantic the blue men that the old people still believed in rode the huge waves. Annie and Charlie had gone to South Uist to look for a piece of croft land. They had called on Hamish before they had left. Annie said she had a good bit of money put by and Charlie shouldn’t care about using it as she planned for him to do all the work. They were to be married in Lochdubh and Hamish was delighted to be asked to be best man.

  Hamish stood on the waterfront, taking in deep breaths of crystal-clear air. Charlie and Annie had taken the poodle with them. His mobile phone rang and the glory of the days fell from his shoulders as he sensed he was not going to like what he was about to hear.

  It was Jimmy. “Get the drinks ready, laddie. Open the champers. I come with great news.”

  “What…?” But Jimmy had rung off.

  Hamish bent down and patted Lugs. “I still feel it’s going to be something nasty,” he said to the dog.

  But he sat down on the sun-warmed wall and waited until he saw Jimmy’s battered old Ford crossing the humpbacked bridge.

  Jimmy practically danced out of his car and handed Hamish a bottle of twelve-year-old Glenlivet.

  “What’s happened, Jimmy?”

  “You will now address me as Detective Chief Superintendent James Anderson. Let’s get some glasses.”

  “You’ve got Blair’s job! He’s finally got sacked?”

  “Better than that. He’s been arrested for the murder of Paul English. Didn’t your geek find a call to headquarters?”

  “My geek took off on holiday without telling me.”

  “Let’s go ben. I’ve a raging thirst on me.”

  * * *

  Seated in the kitchen, Jimmy poured two large measures, drained his and poured another, and beamed at Hamish. “I will tell you all. English does dial 999, one assumed with a pencil or his pointy nose. Emergency asks the problem. He says he has a complaint against one Hamish Macbeth who has abused his position as an officer of the law and if they don’t send someone asap to get him out of the handcuffs, he will phone the press. Decide to send a young copper over and he’s about to go when Blair comes in off a drugs raid and, always nosy, says, ‘Where are you off to?’ Hearing that one Macbeth might be getting into trouble, he offers to go.

  “Now he says, when he got there, there was no sign of Paul nor did he hear anyone shouting for help. He looked up and down the road. No one. Why hadn’t he contacted Macbeth? Said he was fed up with the whole thing and went back home to bed.”

  “Not enough to arrest him,” said Hamish, looking puzzled.

  “But we wondered why he had kept so quiet about it so we got a search warrant for his flat and guess what we found?”

  Hamish stared at him and then said, “You found a sword. And it had English’s blood on it. Where?”

  “Under the mattress.”

  “But you found pills there! Why did this sword suddenly appear?”

  “Don’t spoil things. He must ha’ been moving it here and there.”

  “Jimmy, what was in those pills?”

  “It’s a new nasty sort of amphetamine that ISIS have been feeding their followers. It makes people feel like Superman and without conscience or fear. Blair is desperate when he’s off the booze so he hears about this in one of those dens of iniquity he occasionally drinks in. He’s had it this time and will haunt you no more. He’s in the cells, charged with murder, and his case comes up in the High Court in November. And you know the biggest laugh of all? He wants you to go and visit him.”

  Hamish looked distracted. “I’ll do that now,” he said.

  “Well, what a party pooper you are,” said Jimmy, putting the top back on the bottle. “I’m off.”

  * * *

  After Jimmy had left, Hamish sat for a long time. If he just accepted that Blair was a murderer, he would be sent away for at least fifteen years. Fifteen years of peace and quiet! But that would mean leaving some murder
er roaming Hamish’s patch of heaven and he could not bear that. He was sure that Blair really had made the journey to see if he could make life difficult for one Hamish Macbeth and, having found no one there, had just gone home.

  At last he went out and lifted Lugs into the Land Rover. As he walked around to get into the driver’s seat, a hoodie crow strolled past, like a university don in a black gown, and threw him an age-old prehistoric look. Hamish shuddered and flapped his arms but the bird only shuffled a little bit away. Charlie would just shrug and say it was someone who had come back. But Charlie believed all sorts of weird things. And he had somehow found storybook love, pure romance.

  That famous Scottish singer Kenneth McKellar had found it in his Swiss wife. Hamish had viewed photos of him singing Handel’s “Silent Worship” to his wife and at one point, her face became beautified by sheer love. And yet, last heard, there was no plaque to the man that Sir Adrian Boult called the finest Handel singer of the twentieth century.

  The Scots preferred Hollywood interpretations of their history, even putting up a statue to William Wallace, not as he really was, a knight who fought in full armour, but as Mel Gibson all kilt and woad.

  Hamish felt that that sort of love was waiting for him, just around the corner. When he was with Priscilla, the old ache was there that somehow her chilliness would melt. And when he was in bed with Elspeth Grant, everything was as good as it gets except in the morning she was up and off, frightened her precious job might melt away.

  The day was so fine, he suddenly did not want to spoil it by visiting Blair and set out for Ardnamurchan, hoping for a glimpse of Sonsie. To his dismay, he was stopped several times by rangers telling him that some gang in Glasgow were promising hunters game on Ardnamurchan shooting wild cats.

  Hamish had bought a pound of venison sausages and a dozen eggs along with a packet of baps and a block of butter. Lugs sat and watched eagerly as Hamish lit the old Primus stove and put the pan of food on top to cook. Sonsie used to love sausages, he thought wistfully. After he had eaten, he fed some to Lugs and then put three on a dish on the ground a little bit away and whistled, the special whistle he had always used in the past to summon the cat.