Death of an Honest Man

by M C Beaton

  “By report, you’ve had one grand success rate,” said Silas.

  “Aye, but that was afore the cat.”

  “What’s that got to do with it?”

  “I swear that beastie scrambled my brains. I sometimes think there are things in Sutherland that are weird and don’t happen anywhere else because the rock here is the oldest in the world and it is only covered with a thin layer of soil.”

  “You know,” said Silas, “there are a lot of quite clever folk who think the earth is a living thing and is only allowing us to live on it for the moment.”

  Hamish laughed. “You mean I’m not the only nutcase on the planet? Let’s stop at Dick’s bakery and get some bacon baps for the road.”

  But true to form, Dick was not content until he had loaded a whole hamper into the back of the police Land Rover.

  Silas had such a pleasant day that he almost regretted his decision to leave the police force until he remembered it would probably mean that dreaded transfer to Strathbane if he stayed.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  If cats looked like frogs we’d realise what nasty cruel little bastards they are.

  —Terry Pratchett

  A brisk breeze had made the day pleasant, but as they drove back it became close and humid. Purple clouds edged across the sky to cover the sun.

  At the police station Hamish helped Silas load up the Land Rover with his personal items to take to the hotel.

  “There’s something bad,” Silas said to him. “I didn’t like to spoil the day by telling you, but I suppose I had better. Blair gave me a special phone to call him. I had it switched off but he’s been trying to get me all day.”

  “Phone him! See if that minister’s been onto Daviot.”

  Silas reluctantly phoned. After a few yes, sirs and no, sirs, Silas suddenly snapped, “I am leaving the force. Get yourself another patsy!” He rang off.

  “Foaming at the mouth,” said Silas, “but nothing about the minister.”

  Colonel Halburton-Smythe helped them down the stairs with Silas’s belongings. He gave a little sigh as he looked around, remembering so many cosy evenings with Charlie. Silas was perhaps oversensitive for a policeman, but he recognised the loneliness mixed with diffidence in the colonel’s eyes and said, “Thank you for your help. I see the place has all been cleared up. I have a bottle of wine here. Would you like a glass, sir?”

  “Yes, and George is the name.” With a little sigh of relief, George sank into a battered armchair.

  “Hamish?” Silas held up the bottle.

  “Not me. I’m off to see if I can find that cat. I’d better try to bag it and run it back to Ardnamurchan.”

  * * *

  For some strange reason the storm did not break, although flashes of sheet lightning lit up the underside of the clouds. Hamish parked the Land Rover and then took Lugs for a walk along the waterfront. Great oily waves rolled into the loch from the Atlantic. He heard his name being called and with a feeling of gladness saw Elspeth Grant walking towards him.

  “What brings you?” he cried. “What’s the story?”

  “I think you might be,” said Elspeth. “It’s weird but I am being haunted by a vision of you with your face covered in blood.”

  Hamish repressed a superstitious shiver. Elspeth had Gypsy blood, and some of her weird premonitions came true. “Come into the station,” he said. “I was going to look for the cat but we could have a coffee first and…”

  “The cat’s gone!”

  “Aye, and it’s massacred all my poor hens.”

  “Okay, I’ll have a coffee.”

  * * *

  Seated in the living room, Hamish began to tell her what he had done in phoning the minster. As he discussed his reasons, he began to wonder if he had run mad.

  Elspeth looked so sophisticated in designer clothes and straightened hair, it seemed to highlight the stupidity of what he had done. And yet he wished that she was the Elspeth of old with thrift shop clothes, large boots, and frizzy hair. Who wants to cuddle a fashion plate? Why did women chase after careers?

  As he had stopped in mid-sentence and was staring at her blankly, Elspeth said, “What nasty thought screwed up your mind? Is it because that cat from hell is outside?”

  Hamish ran out of the police station, shouting and calling. The nights were getting dark and he could not see anything at all.

  He returned to join Elspeth and said crossly, “There’s nothing there.”

  “There was,” said Elspeth.

  “Elspeth, it is just a cat. I know you hit the nail on the head sometimes, but it’s luck, not a psychic gift. You’ll be reading tarot cards next.”

  “Oh, go screw yourself, you pompous idiot.” The last word came back to his ears from the kitchen and then was followed by the slamming of the door.

  Hamish felt a wave of misery. He had fully expected to end up in bed with Elspeth as he had done sometimes before, and then all these nasty thoughts had crowded his brain.

  It couldn’t be anything to do with the cat. It had turned feral, yes, but it was just a cat.

  The kitchen door opened just as he was making coffee, and Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife, came in.

  “I was out walking,” she said, “and Elspeth ran to her car as if all the hounds of hell were after her.”

  “Sit down. Have coffee,” urged Hamish. “I felt I had done something daft to do with the murders and just as I was telling her, I got these nasty thoughts about women.”

  “Well, lust is a very masculine thing.”

  “No, sort of why don’t they go back to the kitchen where they belong and have babies. That sort of mentality. Elspeth said it was the cat. I ran outside but couldn’t see it. Came back in and told her she wasn’t psychic and she’d be reading tarot cards next.”

  Angela took a mug of coffee from him and sat down at the kitchen table. “I’m not surprised she ran away. But there has always been something fey about Elspeth.”

  “Where’s your man?”

  “At a medical conference in Inverness. The writing is going badly as usual. People are always telling me that one day they will sit down and write a book as if it will all come out of a seated bum. Or they say they are going to write poetry or children’s books because they want to see their printed name on the cover of something that contains as few words as possible. Have you read any of Alexander McCall Smith’s books?”

  “A few.”

  “He produces an amazing amount of books. Catherine Cookson was the same. I wish I were a compulsive writer but it all seems such an effort. Anyway, tell me what you were about to tell Elspeth.”

  And Hamish did, and, as he talked, he really began to get seriously worried about his mental state.

  When he had finished, Angela asked, “And what had it to do with the cat?”

  “She said she sensed it nearby.”

  “Sometimes she does come up with uncanny predictions, even when she’s in Glasgow.”

  “I feel ashamed at having mistaken the beast for Sonsie. All I get for saving its miserable life is that it has killed all my hens.”

  “Could be a fox. They kill for fun.”

  “No, I know it’s the beast. I must try to catch it and take it back to Ardnamurchan.”

  “Remember when I tried to keep hens and the fox kept getting them?” said Angela. “I’ve still got a humane trap I got from the vet. You can borrow it if you wish.”

  “I’ll try that,” said Hamish.

  * * *

  He collected the trap from Angela and baited it with a piece of deer liver. He put it outside the kitchen door because he had a feeling that the animal was still roaming nearby.

  He slept uneasily and then was woken at dawn by an unearthly howl. Got it, he thought, leaping out of bed.

  And there was the cat in the trap, staring up at him with pure hate blazing in its yellow eyes. He suppressed a shudder and went in to change before putting the cat in the Land Rover and driving to the hotel to borrow Silas’s
car before heading off for Ardnamurchan. He was wearing civilian clothes, not wanting to draw too much attention to himself.

  When he got there he drove to just outside the village of Kilchoan, where he knew two vets visited periodically to research. He lifted the cat in its trap down and then swore as a clawed paw lashed at his hand through the bars, drawing blood.

  He fished in his pocket for a piece of paper on which he had written the Ardnamurchan number people were supposed to phone if they sighted a cat. When a man answered, Hamish said curtly, “I’ve left a wild cat for you just on the road outside the village.” He rang off, deaf to the questions, ran for the car, and sped off. It was only when he was well clear that he realised that maybe someone could trace the owner of that trap and ask Angela so he’d better tell her to say she threw it out in the rubbish and didn’t know who picked it up.

  Silas came out to meet him. “I’ll sleep easy knowing that cat from hell is nowhere about,” he said.

  “I forgot!” wailed Hamish.

  “Forgot what?”

  “What if that cat finds Sonsie? I should have kept my cat. I’m going back, Silas. I’ll see if I can find Sonsie.”

  “Be careful, Hamish. There are always a lot of cameras around when they’re trying to spot wildlife, and they may have your face in front of them. Leave well alone. They won’t be bothered because they’ll be delighted to have such a good specimen—that is, if it doesn’t eat them.”

  “You’re probably right,” said Hamish sadly. “I wonder if Strathbane will replace you with anyone. The Highlands and Islands will soon be littered with my ex-coppers.”

  “There’s a laddie joined same time as me. They call him the Fascist Pig. His real name is Johnny Southern.”

  “Sounds just the sort of cheil they’d inflict on me,” said Hamish.

  * * *

  And it nearly happened. Knowing that Johnny was just the sort of policeman to make Hamish’s life a misery, Blair had already put his name forward. But Johnny was a member of the Freemasons and Daviot had invited him round to his home for a glass of sherry. Johnny Southern had a square tanned handsome face and bright-blue eyes. He said wistfully that he wished to stay in Strathbane to study Superintendent Daviot’s technique and learn from the master. By the end of one glass of sherry, Daviot was purring. Johnny discovered that Mrs. Daviot was almost as racist as he was himself, and when Daviot briefly left the room, he gazed into her eyes and said immigrants were a blot on the British Isles.

  When Daviot came back, he asked, “If you don’t go, who is there?”

  “There’s the Crazy Teuchter. Sorry, we all have nicknames. His real name is Freddy Ross. Real highlander,” jeered Johnny Southern who came from Stirling.

  “I’ll have a word with him tomorrow,” said Daviot.

  * * *

  In the following days, Hamish wished the murders were solved. He liked the police station to himself. Lugs had perked up again. The threat of that peculiar wild cat had gone. Villagers dropped in to visit once more and he realised that for quite a while they had been avoiding the station. A lot of them believed it was someone nasty who had come back as a cat.

  And then Hamish had a call from Jimmy Anderson. “As Irish foreplay would say, brace yourself Bridget, your replacement for Silas should arrive today. “

  “You’re not allowed to make Irish jokes any more,” said Hamish. “There was a lassie visiting the village and she said she was a social worker from Canada and she worked with the aborigines. I said that meant she must work in New Zealand. Not a bit of it. We were told to stop calling them Red Indians, it was now Native Americans. Well, now it is aborigines, which personally I think is a bit insulting. What’s up with just calling them Americans? I don’t get it. Anyway, who’s this policeman they’re inflicting on me?”

  “New fellow called Freddy Ross. Highlander. Bit gawky but all right.”

  There was a knock at the kitchen door. “Bye, Jimmy, I think he’s arrived.”

  Hamish opened the kitchen door. A tall, lanky man stood there in his uniform of regulation sweater and trousers, both looking secondhand. He had a thatch of black hair and a face like a hatchet, the sort of face you see on some puppets. He had very large hands and feet.

  “Freddy Ross, reporting for duty, sir.”

  “Aye, bring your case in and have a seat. Coffee?”

  “Yes, please, sir. I thought seeing as it’s early, I got a couple of croissants from the bakery in Strathbane.” He fiddled under his sweater and produced a brown paper bag.

  “Thank you,” said Hamish. “Now, before you settle in I would like to get one thing straight. Has Blair ordered you to spy on me?”

  “I don’t think anyone’s told him. He wanted Johnny Southern to go and I don’t think anyone has yet mentioned it’s me. Why should he…? Oh, he thinks you might get a break in the murder cases and he wants to pinch anything you have. May I have some butter?”

  “Certainly. Jam if you like. Where are you from originally?”

  “Barra. No work there. Nothing else for me but to join the police. I am afraid, sir, that I have the grand appetite and not wanting to be a burden on your budget, I brought some things in my van. Have you a freezer?”

  “Yes, out in the henhouse.”

  “May I suggest we put the stuff away? The sun is on my van, sir.”

  Hamish followed him outside. When he opened the doors of the van, Hamish said, “Have you been robbing a butcher’s shop?”

  There were rabbits and two hares and a whole deer carcase. “You surely haven’t been poaching deer!” exclaimed Hamish.

  “Roadkill,” said Freddy. “Ran into me, poor beastie. Stone-dead. Glad to get a place to keep him. I’m fairly good at butchering things. If we put everything away for the moment except one rabbit, I’ll make rabbit stew for our supper.”

  Oh, dear, thought Hamish, another foodie-copper. I wonder if he’ll be any good as a policeman.

  But one thing he did discover as the day drew on was that Freddy was an excellent listener. Hamish, glad to have an audience, discussed the murder cases at length as they walked around the village, and then later, as Freddy got to work in the kitchen, Hamish told him about the cat.

  “People will come back, you know, sir,” said Freddy. “These are the grand onions.”

  “Patel buys from the locals,” said Hamish. “I think that cat twisted my mind because I did a daft thing.”

  “That being?” asked Freddy, fixing Hamish with a pair of almost hypnotic black eyes.

  “It seems mad now,” said Hamish, “but I was so sure that minister at Cnothan was the murderer that I disguised my voice and phoned her and said Hamish Macbeth knew she had done it and had the proof. I was hoping to draw her out but nothing happened.”

  “So maybe somehow she knew you weren’t getting anywhere. You didn’t tell anyone, did you?”

  “Only Silas, the one you’re replacing, and he certainly wouldn’t tell anyone.”

  “Dinner’s ready, sir.”

  “You may call me Hamish when we’re off-duty. I’ve a bottle of Chablis in the fridge that I got at Patel’s.”

  The stew was excellent. In fact, thought Hamish, if he can cook like this, it’ll be another Willie, and before you know it he’ll be running a restaurant.

  “I noticed when we went out for a walk that you didn’t lock the kitchen door,” said Freddy.

  “No need to.”

  “I was thinking. If it was me that got that phone call, I’d be terrified. I’d want to see that proof. I’d want to know what Macbeth was saying. So I wait to see him drive off. I wait until something like Bargain Hunt is on the telly and most folk are indoors and I nip into the station and plant a mini bug.”

  “I neffer thocht o’ that,” exclaimed Hamish, his accent becoming more sibilant in his excitement, “and it’s been done before. Let’s look. And if you find one, leave it where it is. Damn, if there is one she’d hear me telling Silas it was a trick. Let’s try the office.”
/>   They went into the office first, running their hands along the shelves and up at the light fitting. “Nothing,” said Hamish.

  Freddy slouched in a corner of the office, his large hands dangling at his sides. With his beaky face, he looked so like a giant puppet that Hamish swore he could imagine strings attached.

  “Everyone around told me you were a maverick,” said Freddy.

  “What do they mean?”

  “Well, they mean you don’t share your ideas with Strathbane.”

  “So? Strathbane wouldnae listen.”

  “If she heard the gossip about you, she might expect you to talk openly in the kitchen or living room. Now, me, I’d go for the kitchen.”

  “Let’s stop talking. If we find anything, dinnae say a word,” urged Hamish.

  Hamish went through to the kitchen and they began to search. But after an hour, Freddy said, “Oh, well, it was just an idea.” Lugs let out a whimper.

  “What’s up, old boy?” asked Hamish. Lugs shuffled over and leaned against his boots. “It cannae be back,” muttered Hamish.

  “What can’t?”

  “The wild cat I took back to Ardnamurchan.”

  “Relax. Not a chance. Too far away.”

  “I’m going to nail up that flap. You look as if you’ve been struck by lightning. What’s up?”

  Freddy took out his notepad and wrote, “See that clock on the top shelf?”

  “Aye, my mother gave it to me. Won it in a competition.” Hamish scribbled this reply.

  Freddy raised his long thin arms and lifted it down. He opened the back. He felt inside with his fingers and brought out a small, sophisticated listening device. Hamish nodded and put a finger to his lips. Freddy replaced the bug and the clock. Then they both walked outside the station.