Death of a Sweep (10 page)

What a wasted trip, thought Hamish. He had walked a few steps away from the restaurant when a thin,
sallow-faced
young man with thick oily hair grabbed his arm. ‘I want to sell you a bit of info,’ he whispered.

Now, thought Hamish, a proper copper would tell him it was his duty to report what he knew and drag him off to the Guildford police. On the other hand, he was not supposed to be in Guildford.

They walked along the street. ‘How much?’ asked Hamish.

‘A hundred.’

‘Fifty or nothing,’ said Hamish, noticing that the pupils of the man’s eyes were like pinpoints.

‘All right. Give it to me.’

‘There’s a café ower there,’ said Hamish. ‘Let’s sit down.
Information first. And if it’s not worth anything, nothing is what you’re going to get.’

The café was of the kind with a bewildering array of expensively priced coffee. Hamish ordered an Americana and his companion, a cappuccino.

‘What have you got?’ asked Hamish, ‘First of all, your name?’

‘Stefan Loncar.’

‘So what information do you have for me?’

‘That bastard, Timothy, sacked me last week. Says if I talk to the police, he’d cut my balls off. But I’m going back to Zagreb tomorrow. I need money.’

‘So what have you got?’

‘Those four men and their wives, the ones the police were asking about, they dined that evening in a private room upstairs.’

Hamish felt a flicker of excitement.

‘Were they all there?’

‘There were the four of them. I recognized the wives. But the men were all wearing funny masks.’

‘What! Why?’

‘They were laughing and said they’d just come from a fancy dress party.’

‘But people who dined in the restaurant on the same night couldn’t remember seeing them. Surely they would remember four men in masks.’

‘There’s a back stair leading from the car park which goes up to the private room. The police were happy to take Timothy’s word for it. Thomas Bromley paid for the dinner with his credit card. Timothy showed that to the police as proof but he said nothing about the private room. Where’s my money?’

‘Aren’t you worried? One of them could be a murderer.’

‘I’m off to Zagreb in the morning.’

Hamish took out a battered wallet and extracted two twenty-pound notes and a ten. Stefan snatched them and
ran out of the café. Hamish hurried after him but when he got outside, Stefan seemed to have disappeared into thin air. 

The four wives got together for drinks that afternoon. ‘Did you tell your husbands?’ asked Sandra.

‘Not yet,’ said Mary Bromley.

‘Don’t let’s,’ said Sandra. ‘It’s not safe. I think we should all keep quiet.’

Reluctantly, the others agreed.

Hamish Macbeth walked round to the back of the
restaurant
and studied the staircase. There was no CCTV camera. There was now possibly a fifth man involved, one who perhaps took the place of whoever it was had gone to Scotland to murder Captain Davenport.

He experienced a feeling of relief. One of the four must have committed the murder, which left the locals clear of suspicion. Now he had to head north and try to pass on what he had learned without betraying that he had strayed out of his area.

As soon as he got back to Lochdubh, he called Jimmy and told him to come to the police station in the morning. He locked up his sleepy hens, refused to feed Lugs who was getting fat, even though the dog banged his feeding bowl on the floor, then he showered and went to bed. But he did not fall asleep immediately. If Sandra Prosser told her husband of his visit, then Charles Prosser might
complain
to the Guildford police, and then one highland police sergeant would be in trouble. But if one of the men was a murderer and the others were hiding the fact and
colluding
with him, then Hamish doubted the Guildford police would learn anything. What about those masks, though?
Britain had more spy cameras on its streets than any other country. Surely the men had been questioned about the masks.

Jimmy arrived at ten in the morning, his blue eyes
bloodshot
and his clothes looking as if they had been slept in.

‘Hard night?’ asked Hamish.

‘Don’t want to talk about it,’ mumbled Jimmy. ‘What’s up?’

Hamish described what he had found in Guildford. Jimmy groaned and clutched his head. ‘What am I to do with all this?’ he demanded. ‘Poaching on Guildford’s territory.’

‘Never mind. I’ve got a nice anonymous letter all written out for you. I want you to phone Guildford and the police at Gatwick airport and stop Stefan Loncar from getting on that plane.’

‘He may already have gone.’

‘I checked. It’s due to leave at noon today.’

‘Right. Give me the letter. I hope there’s no fingerprints and no DNA.’

‘Of course not. Your name’s been mentioned in the press so I put it on the envelope. Off you go. Oh, there’s one thing. Why weren’t the police suspicious about those masks the men were wearing?’

‘It never came up. The camera focused on the front of the restaurant wasn’t working. And if, as you say, they went up a back stair, it doesn’t matter anyway.’

When he had gone, Hamish switched on his computer and studied the little information he had about the four men. Thomas Bromley ran a chain of clothing stores. But did he have other businesses? Was Timothy’s one of his? If that was the case, it would explain why Timothy was prepared to lie for him. Timothy had claimed in a
statement
to Guildford police that he was the owner. Hamish googled a list of Guildford restaurants, and his hazel eyes
gleamed. Timothy’s was not listed, and yet he had a
feeling
in his bones that it was owned or part owned by one of the men. He needed a business expert to search company directories and find what other companies might belong to the men and if they had any connection with Scotland.

Prosser’s supermarkets were called Foodies but all of them were in the south of England. There was no
connection
, then, with Scotland.

Hamish had a feeling that the captain had actually got much more money out of one or all of them for some scam, more money than they claimed to have lost. The lawyers’ letters from the four had all been dated last year. Maybe the captain had come up with a get-rich-quick scheme for them. Persuading them that it was so good that they could not only recoup their losses but gain a fortune. From people like Angela and Edie and Caro, he had gathered that the captain had been superb as a con artist.

He went out for a walk and met Angela Brodie on the waterfront. Her thin face was alight with excitement. ‘Hamish, my publisher thinks my book might be
nominated
for the Haggart Prize.’

‘That’s grand, Angela. What’s it about?’

‘Oh, the usual this and that.’

‘Like what?’

‘Oh, Hamish, literary books are so hard to describe.’

‘Try me.’

‘Oh, there’s Mrs Wellington. I must ask her about something.’

Hamish studied her retreating figure suspiciously. He suddenly felt sure that Angela’s novel was based on Lochdubh, maybe a thinly disguised Lochdubh. He was in the clear because writers only brought policemen into detective stories, and detective writers never got literary awards.

He rubbed his face and neck with midge repellent because the day was soft and damp and those Scottish mosquitoes were out in force. A thin line of mist lay across
the forest on the opposite bank. Two seals struggled on to a rock by the beach and stared at him with big round eyes. He turned away. A little part of his brain was superstitious and believed the old stories that the seals were dead people who had come back.

He collected his dog and cat and drove to Drim. He let them out on the beach to play and went to Milly’s house.

Hamish frowned when he recognized Tam’s car parked outside. He didn’t quite trust Tam or, for that matter, any other reporter except Elspeth. He wanted to phone Elspeth and ask her if she knew any business expert but –
remembering
the fate of Betty Close – decided he might be putting her in danger.

Milly answered the door. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. ‘Come in, Hamish. You’ll find Tam in the kitchen.’

‘I would like a word with you in private. Did your husband leave any business papers? Did the police take them away?’

‘Apart from bank statements and bills and things like that, there wasn’t much else.’

Tam appeared in the doorway. Hamish had a sudden idea. ‘Tam, do you know anyone expert enough to dig into company registers and find maybe hidden companies?’

‘Why?’

‘I can’t be telling you the noo but if you help me, you’ll be the first to get the news if anything breaks.’

Tam scratched one of his large ears. ‘I mind there’s a retired businessman up at Craskie in a wee white cottage called Cruachan just on the left as you approach the
village
. He’s called John McFee.’

‘Thanks. I’ll try him.’

Hamish drove off and took the coast road to Craskie. He spotted the cottage easily. An elderly gentleman with white hair was working in his front garden.

‘Mr McFee,’ called Hamish.

‘Aye, that’s me.’

He straightened up from weeding, groaned, and clutched his back. ‘Age is a terrible thing, laddie. How can I help you? I can’t be frightened at the sight of a policeman because there’s simply no one left in my life I care about.’

Will I be like this some day? wondered Hamish. Will there be anyone in my life to care for me?

He stood with one foot raised and his mouth slightly open.

‘Don’t stand there looking glaikit,’ said John. ‘Come ben the house. The midges out here are eating me alive.’

Hamish followed him in to a book-lined living room. There was a peat fire on the hearth and several good pieces of furniture. ‘Sit at the table at the window,’ ordered John, ‘and I’ll get us some coffee. I don’t like these coffee tables. Can’t stand bending over to drink coffee. Listen to that. The wind’s rising. I hope it blows those damn midges out to sea. Do midges have a natural predator?’

‘I don’t know,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ve never really thought about it.’

‘I’ll get the coffee.’

Hamish took off his hat and put it on the floor at his feet. The cottage was on a slight rise and afforded a good view of the sea. Apatch of blue sky was forming to the west, and seagulls wheeled and dived over the rising waves.

His eyes began to droop and he fell suddenly asleep, waking only when John put a tray of coffee and biscuits on the table.

‘Sorry,’ said Hamish. ‘A bad night.’

‘So what brings you?’ asked John, pouring coffee. There was no evidence of central heating, and the fire gave out little heat. He was wearing two sweaters and thick trousers.

‘I need your expertise,’ said Hamish. ‘You’ll have heard about the murders.’

‘Yes, bad business.’

‘I want to tell you what I know about four men and then hope you can somehow find out which companies they
own, particularly if one of them has an umbrella company that covers the fact that he owns a restaurant in Guildford called Timothy’s.’

‘Won’t your headquarters have experts?’

‘Not that I know of. There’s another thing. The four men sent lawyers’ letters to the captain, but the demands for repayment did not involve a great deal of money. To have killed Captain Davenport in such a vicious rage leads me to believe that he scammed a great deal of money for some venture out of all of them. If you agree, I will arrange some form of payment for you from Strathbane.’

John sighed. ‘I’m so bored these days, I would do it for nothing.’

‘I want you to be very careful,’ warned Hamish. ‘Don’t get close to any of these men or their business. One of them, I am sure, is a murderer.’

Back at the police station, Hamish waited and waited to hear from Jimmy. ‘I’m coming right over,’ said the
detective
. ‘Blair’s furious. He wanted it to be one of the villagers. He says the letter is just mad spite but Daviot has sent it off to Guildford. See you soon.’

Jimmy arrived just as the wind had risen to a full gale. ‘How you can live here beats me,’ he complained. ‘Why is it so cold? It’s summer.’

‘Global cooling,’ said Hamish. ‘What have you got?’

‘First of all, something bad. Stefan Loncar was booked on the noon plane to Zagreb but didn’t turn up. They searched his flat. He had packed up but there was no sign of him.’

‘Someone must have spied me talking to him,’ said Hamish.

‘Maybe. The four suspects have been brought in for
questioning
. They lawyered up immediately. It’s English law, see? They don’t need to wait until we allow them lawyers.’

‘What about the masks? And what fancy dress party were they coming from?’

‘They now say there wasn’t any party. They’d been watching the Iraq inquiry and they had these Tony Blair masks and thought it would be a bit of a hoot to wear them. They are all members of the Rotary Club and the Freemasons and you name it. Guildford said they had to let them go.’

Hamish told him about his visit to John McFee.

‘Now, there’s a thing,’ said Jimmy. ‘I wanted to hire an expert but Blair blocked it. Says we haven’t the funds.’

‘Well, if McFee comes up with anything, you’d better get your chequebook out,’ said Hamish. ‘I not only want to find out how much Davenport tricked them out of, I want to know if they have any connection to Scotland,
Edinburgh
in particular. Oh, and did they question Timothy again?’

‘Yes, he swears blind the four men are regular customers and salt of the earth. His real name is Andreas Gristedes. Greek by birth. How soon can your expert come up with anything?’

Hamish groaned. ‘Probably a month or so. It isn’t the telly where some geek flicks through a computer and says, “Aha!” Why haven’t you asked for whisky?’

‘Drying out.’

‘About time.’

‘So we have to wait.’

Hamish called on John McFee the next day, anxious for some sort of a result.

‘It’s difficult,’ said John. ‘I’ll let you know when I’ve got something. You see, you can hide names of any partners. It depends on what kinds of partners you have. For example, you can have active partner, ostensible partner, silent
partner
, secret partner, dominant partner, and limited partner. You can also pay to have the names of the partners in the company hidden.

‘Then if it’s that secretive, say for hiding companies or laundering money, you could set everything up in Greek Cyprus or Ukraine. I’ll let you know as soon as I get anything.’

When he left John, Hamish stopped on the road back to Lochdubh and called Jimmy. ‘My expert’s proving slow,’ he complained. ‘Surely you’ve got your own man on it.’

‘Fact is, the whole business has gone on the back burner,’ said Jimmy. ‘We’ve got illegal cigarette smugglers and drug smugglers and God knows what other mayhem. The press have forgotten about your case, so the pressure’s off.’

When he had rung off, Hamish sat scowling. He got down from the Land Rover and let the dog and cat out. ‘Go and play on the beach,’ he said. He phoned Elspeth in Glasgow.

‘I’m in my dressing room,’ said Elspeth. ‘I’ve only got a few minutes.’

‘It’s like this,’ said Hamish. ‘Strathbane have dropped investigating the captain’s death because the press
pressure
is off. Can you get it on again?’

‘I’ll try. Got to go.’

When Hamish returned to Lochdubh, it was to find Angela Brodie pacing up and down outside the police station.

‘What’s up?’ he asked. ‘No, you pair,’ he shouted at the dog and cat. ‘You are
not
going to the Italian restaurant. Get inside. Sorry, Angela. But they’re getting ower fat.’

‘My husband’s got the norovirus.’

‘That’s bad. But he’ll be over it in three days.’

‘It’s not that. The Haggart dinner is tonight in Edinburgh.’

‘And?’

‘I don’t want to go alone,’ said Angela feverishly. ‘Would you come with me?’

‘I think I could manage that. You’re in a right state, Angela. It’s not the Booker Prize. The Haggart people sell cakes.’

‘Hamish!’ said Angela impatiently. ‘It’s one of the oldest literary awards. Haggart may manufacture cakes but they set up this award in Edwardian days and it’s been on the go ever since. I’m tired of being just a nominee. The first book was nominated for the Booker. The one before last for the Haggart. I’ve got to win.’

‘Angela, you never struck me as being ambitious!’

‘Now you know.’

‘Calm down. I’ll go.’

‘Oh, thanks. Mrs Wellington is going to check on my husband. We have to be at the Caledonian Hotel for the dinner. It starts at seven o’clock. Can we leave in an hour, say?’

‘Won’t we be a bit early?’

‘It’s better to be early. I mean there could be sheep on the road, or a tractor, or fog.’

Hamish looked up at the clear blue sky and then back down at Angela’s worried face.

‘I’ll be ready,’ he said gently.

Angela drove most of the way in silence, her knuckles white with tension on the steering wheel. The last time Hamish had seen her in such a state was when she was determined to be the perfect wife because of the malign influence of an incomer to the village. But ever since she had got over that, she had been her old self, gentle and unassuming and the worst cook in Sutherland.

She was wearing a pretty, floaty sort of chiffon dress under her coat along with very thick make-up. Hamish was wearing a Savile Row suit which he had picked up in a thrift shop. The last time he had worn it was the last time he had met Priscilla for dinner. He had a sudden sharp longing to speak to her again.

As he had expected, they were too early by an hour so they went into the hotel bar. ‘Better keep to mineral water,’ cautioned Angela, ‘because there’ll be drinks at dinner and I want all my wits about me.’ She took a sheaf of notes out of her handbag and began to study them, her lips moving.

‘What’s that?’ asked Hamish.

‘It’s my acceptance speech.’

‘Angela! You’re taking all this too seriously.’

‘What would you know? You haven’t a single ambitious bone in your body.’

‘Aye, and I like it that way.’ Hamish suddenly wished the evening would be over.

At last, they went in for dinner. Angela and Hamish were seated at one of the round tables with her publisher, Henry Satherwaite, a thin female poet called Jemima Thirsk and her husband, and two Haggart executives and their wives.

The dinner was at last over and the chairman of Haggart took the podium. He droned on about the virtue of the firm’s cakes and then got down to the business of the evening.

‘We have five nominees: Jemima Thirsk for her poems,
It Happened One Sunday
, Simon Swallow for
The Bastard of Bridgetown
, Angela Brodie for
The Bovary Factor
, Sean Belfast for
The End of Ulster
, and Harriet Wilson for
Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother
.

‘Our distinguished panel of experts have chosen the prizewinner.’ With maddening slowness he opened an envelope. ‘Get on with it!’ muttered Angela, polishing off her after-dinner brandy in one gulp.

‘The winner is – Harriet Wilson for
Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.’

Angela turned chalk-white. Her publisher patted her hand. ‘Better luck next year,’ he whispered.

Harriet Wilson was a large woman wearing a beaded gown and with two feathers stuck in her elaborately dressed coils of grey hair. She fell over getting up to the platform, and it took two men to hoist her to her feet.

She blinked myopically at the audience and then
vomited
violently.

‘They’re always drunks,’ said Hamish.

‘Why do you say that?’ asked Henry.

‘Because it’s always a Cherokee grandmother. Never the Sioux or the Mohawk or the Cree. Very fertile lady that grandmother.’

‘You mean, she might have made the whole thing up?’

‘Maybe,’ said Hamish. ‘Oh, Angela, don’t take on so.’ For Angela was crying quietly. He put an arm round her and gave her a hug.

‘Did you see that?’ hissed Nessie Currie, gazing avidly at the television set. ‘I knew it. That Hamish Macbeth should
be locked up. No woman is safe from him. And there’s poor Dr Brodie at death’s door. Shame!’

‘Shame,’ echoed Jessie.

‘No wonder herself is crying. It’s the shame o’ adultery.’

‘Adultery,’ murmured Jessie.

Dr Brodie was lying on the sofa, feeling like death. His ancient television had broken down right before the
screening
of the Haggart awards. He heard knocking at the kitchen door but felt too ill to get up so he shouted weakly, ‘Come in. It isn’t locked.’

And in came some of the villagers bearing cakes and whisky and flowers and home remedies, which they put down on the kitchen table. Mrs Wellington, who had been banished from her duties as doctor-sitter, nonetheless came in and looked sympathetically at Dr Brodie.

‘Did she win?’ he whispered.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘What’s everyone doing in the kitchen?’

‘Folk are bringing you some things to make you feel better. Have you … er … read your wife’s book?’

‘Not yet. Angela doesn’t like me reading her stuff until it’s published. That’s an idea. There’s a copy over there. Hand it to me.’

‘Well, now, I think you should rest your eyes. I’ll just switch on the telly.’

‘It’s broken down.’

‘You need to be firm with these machines.’ Mrs Wellington brought her fist down on the top of the machine, and it flickered into life. ‘There! That’ll soothe you.’ She handed him the remote control.

Mrs Wellington tiptoed out. Dr Brodie looked at a
programme
where two men were beheading a third. He switched it off. He was feeling marginally better. Maybe now was the time to read his wife’s book.

Angela rallied for the book signing. To Hamish’s relief, she seemed to be signing quite a lot of books. He bought one himself and retreated to a quiet corner. As he read, his
eyebrows
practically vanished up into his thick flaming red hair. He skimmed through the book rapidly. It was the story of a bored doctor’s wife in a highland village who embarks on a steamy affair with the village policeman. The sex scenes were graphic. Either Angela had a vivid
imagination
or Dr Brodie was more of a stud than anyone could have guessed. He blushed all over. Angela’s ambition had made her blind to the effect her book would have on Lochdubh. Hamish could imagine the gossip spreading across the whole of Sutherland.

Henry Satherwaite came up to him. ‘Good book, eh? Are you from Lochdubh?’

‘I am.’

‘What do you do there?’

‘I’m the village policeman.’

Henry grinned.

‘No, I am not Angela’s lover, and this book is going to cause me one shedload of trouble,’ said Hamish. ‘I …’ He suddenly saw a familiar face. Simon Swallow, the author, was signing books, and sitting beside him, opening books for him to sign, was the receptionist from Scots Entertainment. She saw him and got to her feet. Hamish tried to catch her but she vanished into the ladies’ toilet. He waited outside, then opened the door and went in. Two women at the hand basins let out a screech of protest. Hamish flashed his warrant card before checking the cubicles. Then he noticed a blast of cold air. The room was L-shaped. He turned the corner. A window was standing open. He leaned out. There was a fire escape to the car park. As he watched, a black BMW went roaring off.

He returned to the signing and picked up a copy of Simon Swallow’s book. There was now only one woman in front of him. When it was his turn, Simon asked, ‘Who’s it to?’

Hamish showed his warrant card. ‘Who was that girl who was opening the books for you?’

‘Oh, Sonia. Where’s she gone and what do you want with her?’

‘Just a wee chat.’

‘She’s probably gone to the toilet.’

‘Sonia took one look at me and ran off and escaped out the toilet window. How do you know her?’

‘We met up in a pub this lunchtime and she offered tae come along.’

Hamish retreated to a corner of the room and phoned John McFee. ‘Concentrate on a firm called Scots
Entertainment
,’ he said. ‘There’s something fishy about it.’

‘Will do.’

‘And get back to me as soon as possible.’

He waited until Angela had signed her last book. ‘They’ve booked rooms here for us for the night,’ said Angela, ‘but I must get home.’

‘All right. But I’ll drive.’

In the car, as he drove off out of Edinburgh and took the long road north, Hamish said, ‘Angela, I don’t want to add to your distress, but have you any idea what’s waiting for us in Lochdubh? You wrote about a doctor’s wife having an affair with a policeman. You’re going to be damned as the whore of Lochdubh.’

‘But they all know me!’ wailed Angela. ‘They cannot possibly think—’

‘Oh, yes they can. Oh, dinnae greet. You must have cried a bucketful already,’ said Hamish heartlessly.

Angela snivelled, blew her nose, and said, ‘I must have gone mad. What’s it like, Hamish, to have no ambition whatsoever?’

‘It makes a man enjoy the day. Ambition can cause envy and resentment. Chust look at the mess you’re in. Try to get some sleep.’

As Hamish drove up the steep road which wound through the hills towards Lairg, he glanced in dismay at the petrol gauge. He hoped there was just enough fuel to get them home.

Then he saw the lights of a car coming up fast behind them. He had a sudden premonition of disaster before the car struck them and sent them crashing over the side of the road and down a steep brae. Angela’s little car hit a rock, somersaulted, and landed on its roof. Cursing, Hamish unfastened his seat belt and managed to get the door open. He heard his attacker roar off into the distance. He rolled out into the heather. He could hardly believe that he hadn’t broken anything. He went round to the passenger side and wrenched open the door. He unfastened Angela’s seat belt and eased her out. ‘What happened?’ she asked.

‘Have you broken anything?’

‘I think I’m all right. I feel so sick.’

‘Chust lie down in the heather away from the car. I don’t think it’s going to burst into flames but you never know.’

He phoned the police emergency number and
demanded
all the services fast: police, fire, and ambulance.

Then he phoned Jimmy Anderson’s mobile number and told a sleepy Jimmy all about the girl at the book signing and the attack on them. ‘Get the Edinburgh police to check immediately on Scots Entertainment and find that girl, Sonia,’ said Hamish. ‘Someone tried to kill us.’

‘Saw you on the telly at the awards hugging Angela. You sure it wasn’t Dr Brodie?’

‘He’s in bed sick and why would it be him?’

‘There was talk about the book. Seems your pal has written about a highland policeman rogering the doctor’s wife.’

‘Drop it, Jimmy. I swear to God it’s one of those four bastards. Any sign of Stefan Loncar?’

‘Not a one. His permit was about to run out so we think he may have gone into hiding.’

‘I think you should be looking for a body,’ said Hamish.

Hamish rang off when he heard sirens in the distance. First on the scene was the Lairg volunteer fire brigade. Hamish told them to leave the car where it was, as the Scenes Of Crimes Operatives would need to examine the whole place first. He was just about to ask them to take Angela to hospital when two police cars arrived and then a mountain rescue helicopter. Hamish insisted that Angela go to hospital as she was now feeling sick and was plainly in a state of shock. After she had been borne off, he made a full statement to the police and asked to be driven to Lochdubh. The scene was suddenly floodlit as a television team arrived.