Death of a Policeman (18 page)

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 feel 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.

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.

He carefully timed his arrival to coincide with Shona's lunch hour. He stood beside his car and waited for her to come down the library steps.

Dick's heart beat quickly when she appeared. “Hi, Shona,” he said. “Fancy a bit of lunch?”

“That'd be grand. I'm head librarian now.”

They walked into the café and ordered their food.

The sunlight shone through the café window and sent little fiery sparks shining from an engagement ring on Shona's finger.

Dick experienced a little pang of disappointment. He pointed to the ring. “Who's the lucky fellow?”

“It's Diarmuid.”

“Whit!” Dick turned red with outrage. “That stupid, useless…”

She put a hand over his. “Be happy for me. He's a good man.”

“How can a good man even think about getting his leg over such as Hetty?”

“But he didn't! He said she chased him.”

“Shona, please consider…”

“No,” she said mulishly, “I thought you would be happy for me.”

“I don't feel like eating,” said Dick, and marched out of the café.

Hamish listened sympathetically to Dick as he ranted and raved on his return to the police station.

When Dick had finally fallen silent, Hamish said, “Have you ever considered that the lovely Shona may not be that bright?”

“She's a librarian,” said Dick.

“I didn't mean intellectually bright. She's a small-town girl. She's getting on for thirty. A chap in the council with his own home will be considered quite a catch in Braikie.”

“What a waste,” muttered Dick.

“I'm taking a few days off,” said Hamish suddenly.

“Is that all right with headquarters?”

“Cover for me.”

“Okay. Why don't you and me take a holiday together?”

Just like Darby and Joan, thought Hamish gloomily. “It wouldn't work,” he said. “They'd never let us go off together.”

“So where are you going?”

“Just a trip.”

“Where?”

“Mind your own business.”

The following morning, Dick looked suspiciously at Hamish as he set out, wearing his best suit and with his fiery hair brushed till it shone.

He's going to see Elspeth, he thought. That's all I need.

Hamish drove to Inverness airport and caught a plane to Glasgow. He then took a taxi to the television station where Elspeth worked. He was told that one of the staff was leaving and they had all gone for a celebratory lunch to Rogano's restaurant. Hamish thought of his small bank balance. Rogano's was an upmarket fish restaurant, and he wouldn't have a chance to talk to Elspeth alone anyway. He told the receptionist he would wait.

He collected a cup of black coffee from the coffee machine. It was scalding hot. He took a small cardboard container from the watercooler and looked around for somewhere to pour off a bit of the coffee before adding cold water. His eye lit on three wineglasses and a bunch of grapes on a small white table. All the glasses of wine, white, red, and yellow, were half empty. He tipped some of his coffee into the red wine.

The receptionist shrieked. “You can't do that! That's an art exhibit. It's called
After Dinner
and cost a fortune.”

“Sorry,” said Hamish miserably. “But if you tip out the red wine and half fill the glass no one will know.”

She scurried off and returned with a thin man with dangling earphones who was carrying a bottle of red wine and a jug and proceeded to repair the damage.

The day dragged on while Hamish tried to read magazines, looking up hopefully every time someone came through the doors.

At last Elspeth arrived with a crowd of people. She stopped short at the sight of Hamish. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to see you.”

“Why?”

“Just to see you,” said Hamish, suddenly wishing he had not come. She looked very sophisticated and not like the Elspeth of the Highlands.

“I've got to get to work. Look, if you can wait until after the six o'clock news, we'll go out for a quick drink.”

She marched off towards the lifts.

Hamish gloomily looked at the magazines. They seemed to be full of features on celebrities he had never heard of. Suddenly he fell into a deep sleep, and he dreamt that Hetty was chasing him across the moors with a shotgun.

He woke to find Elspeth shaking him. “Let's go,” she said. “I haven't much time.”

They walked to a pub nearby.

“So what do you want to talk about?” asked Elspeth.

“I came to apologise. I felt I was rude to you the last time we met.”

Her face softened. “And you came all this way! You should have warned me.”

“I came on an impulse. Look, Elspeth, is there any hope for us?”

Her silver eyes surveyed him. “I wouldn't want to leave my job here,” she said. “Would you want to leave Lochdubh and work for Strathclyde police?”

“No.”

“So you see, it's hardly a case of the world well lost for love. I don't want to go back there. You don't want to come here. There's your answer.”

“You could always give up work.”

“And live on a policeman's salary? I've got used to all the comforts that money can bring, Hamish.”

“So there's nothing more to be said?”

“No, let's drop it. Tell me how things are in Lochdubh.”

They chatted away until Elspeth looked at her watch. “I've got to get back.”

“Can you put me up for the night?” asked Hamish.

“Sorry. Bad idea.”

Well, I tried, thought Hamish as he parked the Land Rover outside the police station. Dick looked anxiously as he walked in and then visibly brightened. “Would you like something to eat?”

“No,” said Hamish. “I just want to go to bed.”

“There's an official-looking letter arrived for you.”

“Let's see it.”

Hamish opened the letter and stared down at the contents in dismay. It was to tell him that the police station in Lochdubh was to be closed down. It would be sold off in six months' time. Hamish dumbly handed the letter to Dick.

“They cannae dae that!” said Dick, looking wildly around.

“I'll think o' something,” said Hamish grimly.

In the morning, Hamish brushed and pressed his uniform trousers and removed several hen feathers from his regulation sweater. One of the epaulettes looked about to come loose, so he stitched it firmly on. Then he polished his boots until they shone.

“Where are you going?” asked Dick.

“To fight,” said Hamish. “Sonsie, Lugs, come along.”

He reflected as he walked out to the Land Rover that it should not be such a perfect day. Lochdubh dreamt in golden sunlight. Groups of villagers were standing outside Patel's shop gossiping.

He put his pets in the back and drove off. As he passed the Tommel Castle Hotel, he saw Priscilla crossing the car park. He was about to stop, but decided to drive on. I've had enough o' rejection, he thought, and thon one is a walking example.

Never would he work in Strathbane. He cursed Blair and Daviot and every creeping sneak that had ever plagued his career. Policing was about helping people, bringing justice, not meeting stupid government targets and crawling like mad in a scramble for promotion. Okay, people thought it was weird that he was not ambitious. But maybe Scotland could do with a few more unambitious policemen.

He went in to headquarters. As he passed the detectives' room, Jimmy hailed him and came hurrying out. “I just heard the news, Hamish. Is there anything I can do?”

“You can't. I can. Let me past.”

Jimmy stared after Hamish as he walked up the stairs. Blair's jeering voice came from behind Jimmy. “Aye, there he goes. Off tae the scaffold.”

“You can't go in there. He's busy. I won't allow it,” said ​
Hele
n, trying to bar the way.

Hamish put her bodily to one side, opened the door, and marched in.

Daviot rose from behind his desk. “You can't come in here without an appointment,” he said.

Hamish slammed a folder down on the desk.

“Have a look at that!”

Daviot opened the folder and turned a muddy colour as he found himself looking down at one of those dreadful photographs of his wife.

“You told me you'd destroyed these,” he cried.

“Keeping one is a dirty trick,” said Hamish, “but so is closing down my police station. I saved your job,
sir
. So look at it this way. No police station for me means no job for you. Did this order come from above? I can find out.”

“I was ordered to cut costs, and the policing could be done from here. We could give you a promotion.”

“I hate doing this,” said Hamish, “but if I must, I must. Give me back my station or this goes out to the newspapers.”

“I can be a dangerous enemy,” said Daviot.

“And I can be worse,” said Hamish.

Daviot put his head in his hands. Then he mumbled, “Your bloody police station is safe.”

Hamish picked up the folder.

“Leave that here!” shouted Daviot.

“Insurance,” said Hamish, and walked out.

He ought to feel triumphant, he thought as he climbed into the Land Rover. But he felt dirty. It's as if I've become one of them, he thought.

He stopped up on the moors, well clear of Strathbane, and let the dog and cat out to chase each other through the heather. He stood beside the Land Rover, took off his cap, and threw it on the passenger seat. A jaunty little wind ruffled his red hair. Far up in the clear blue sky, a pair of mating buzzards dipped and turned.

“The hell wi' all of them,” he said aloud. “It's worth it.”

“Talking to yourself, laddie?”

Hamish swung round. The gnarled figure of an old crofter, Robbie Sinclair, appeared round the Land Rover.

“Why is it,” demanded Hamish, “that when I want a witness to a crime, no one's seen anything, but when I have a wee chat with myself someone like you always creeps up out the heather?”

“Your sins will find you out,” said Robbie sententiously.

“Talking to myself isn't a sin. Why am I even bothering to explain?” said Hamish. “What are you doing around here?”

“I was out for a dauner,” said Robbie, “and I saw the police vehicle. Got a ciggie?”

“No, I gave up smoking.”

“So did I,” said Robbie, “but I aye crave just the one. Well, I'd better get on. Some of us have work tae do.”

“Like what?” asked Hamish, but Robbie was already scuttling away across the moor.

Hamish went into the kitchen. Dick looked up with tears in his eyes. “I was just taking a look around, Hamish, and it's breaking my heart.”

“Then you can mend your heart,” said Hamish. “I've saved the station.”

Dick rose, rushed round the table, and hugged Hamish. “Get off me, you daft bugger,” said Hamish, pushing him away.

“This calls for a drink,” said Dick. “I'll switch the telly on now.”

“Why? What's happened?”

“Angela's on the book show on the telly.”

“Right! Let's have a look.”

Dick switched on the television and went to the cupboard where he kept all his goodies.

He brought down a bottle of Armagnac, then went through to the kitchen and came back with two glasses. “I've been saving this for a special occasion.” He poured two glasses and handed one to Hamish. “Slainte!”

“Slainte,” echoed Hamish.

The book show opened to two presenters, a man and a woman, sitting on a sofa. Both were dressed identically in tartan shirts and jeans.