Death of a Charming Man (8 page)

Two o’clock came and went and he yawned and stretched. Nothing was going to happen, he decided. Miss Tabbet was an old battleaxe and even Dolan must have decided to give her house a miss. The wind had risen and was howling outside. But suddenly he heard it. The tinkle of breaking glass coming from the kitchen.

He went quietly to the back of the house. A hand crept through a hole in the glass of the kitchen window and released the catch. Then the burly figure of a man climbed in over the draining-board and jumped lightly on to the floor.

Hamish switched on the kitchen light.

Sammy Dolan stood there, blinking at him. But before Hamish could charge him, Dolan whipped a wicked hunting-knife out of his boot.

‘Stand back,’ he said, ‘and no one will get hurt.’

Hamish reached behind him, picked up a frying pan from the cooker and then, darting forward like lightning and ducking to avoid a vicious stab of the knife, brought it down with all his force on Dolan’s forehead.

The Irishman groaned and fell to the kitchen floor. He was down but not out, so Hamish dragged him across the floor and handcuffed him to the iron leg of the cooker, read out the charge and then went through and called Strathbane and asked them to send help to pick Dolan up.

He returned to the kitchen. Dolan looked up at him balefully and let out a stream of oaths. ‘Shut up,’ said Hamish. He went upstairs in the direction of the snores. Miss Tabbet was lying on her back, her face glistening with cold cream. He put a hand on her shoulder and shook her awake.

‘Get out of my bedroom, you … you
rapist
,’ she screamed.

‘The day I even think about raping someone like you I’ll check into the loony-bin, said Hamish brutally. ‘I’ve caught your burglar.’

‘What?’ Miss Tabbet was obviously reluctant to let the thought of rape disappear.

‘I’ve caught the burglar. I’m waiting for the van from Strathbane to take him away.’

She struggled up. ‘Where is he?’

‘Handcuffed to your kitchen cooker.’ Hamish turned and walked out and went back down to the kitchen.

Dolan was quieter, but at the sight of Hamish he said, ‘I’m going to charge you with police brutality.’

‘Suit yourself,’ Hamish shrugged and went to plug in the kettle. He felt he deserved a coffee.

Miss Tabbet appeared in the doorway wrapped in a pink chenille dressing-gown and stared at the figure of Dolan on the floor. Then her eyes went to the frying-pan, which Hamish had tossed on to the counter. She picked it up. ‘Why has my best frying-pan got a dunt in it?’

‘Because I hit Dolan on the head with it.’

‘Police brutality, that’s what it is,’ whined Dolan.

‘My best frying-pan,’ screeched Miss Tabbet. ‘And what are you doing with that kettle?’

‘You can put in a bill for the frying-pan if you like,’ said Hamish coolly. ‘And as I have chust saved you from being robbed, you can allow me one cup of coffee.’ His voice was quiet, but something in it made Miss Tabbet blink rapidly and retreat. To Hamish’s relief, he heard her going back upstairs. He made himself a cup of instant coffee and took it through to the living room and waited patiently until a police van arrived from Strathbane and took Dolan away. It was six in the morning. He should really wake the schoolteacher again and ask her to lock up after he went but he could not bear any more of her grumbling, and besides, the burglar had been caught. He took a childish delight in leaving his unwashed coffee-cup on the living room table. He went out into the light of a sunny morning, climbed into the Land Rover, and with a feeling of gladness, of release, set off for Lochdubh.

After filing his report he slept most of the day and then awoke and phoned Priscilla. Sophy answered the phone and said she would find her. After quite a long time she came back and said in an amused voice that Priscilla had said she was out. ‘And what’s she miffed about?’ asked Hamish.

‘Some biddy reported we were seen kissing outside the craft shop in Carrask,’ said Sophy gleefully.

‘I hope you told Priscilla there was nothing in that,’ said Hamish sharply.

‘Oh, sure. But she wasn’t inclined to listen to me.’

‘I’ll be right up.’ Hamish slammed down the phone, cursing Sophy under his breath.

He could feel his engagement, unofficial though it still was, falling apart. He no longer knew what he wanted. Why had Priscilla turned into such a managing female? Why couldn’t she have left him alone? He suddenly wondered if she would ever change. Would she clatter around the police station in Lochdubh eternally unforgiving when she finally realized he had no intention of leaving the village? Why couldn’t people realize it was a rare gift to be happy with one’s lot? Although this particular policeman’s lot at the present moment, and thanks to Priscilla and Sophy, was not a happy one.

When he got to the hotel, Sophy said happily she would fetch Priscilla while Hamish paced up and down the reception. When Priscilla and Sophy walked in, Sophy went back behind the reception desk and leaned on it.

‘Yes, Hamish?’ asked Priscilla frostily.

He gathered her in his arms and she suddenly gave a little sigh and leaned against him. Sophy watched wide-eyed as Hamish, with his arm about Priscilla’s shoulders, led her outside.

‘Now what’s all this?’ asked Hamish gently.

‘I couldn’t help remembering your reputation as a philanderer,’ said Priscilla in a low voice.

‘Look, you must know that Sophy found out that I was at Carrask and followed me over. We went for tea and then she kissed my cheek on leaving. That was all. But I couldnae help remembering the days when you yourself would have come over to see me.’

‘I’ve been pretty bad, haven’t I, Hamish? Forget about promotion and houses in Strath-bane. I’m sure we’ll be happy enough in the Lochdubh police station.’

‘Come back with me now,’ urged Hamish. ‘We never have any proper time together.’

For one awful moment, she hesitated and then she nodded her fair head.

Hamish’s excitement rose as he approached the police station, with Priscilla following in her own car. This was it, at last! Were there clean sheets on the bed? Damn, he needed a bath. He hadn’t had any supper and his stomach grumbled and rumbled. But food could wait.

Once inside the police station, he brushed aside Priscilla’s suggestion that they should have a cup of coffee and gathered her firmly in his arms. The time had come for action. He swept her up to carry her to the bedroom but she was a tall girl and her feet got jammed in the kitchen door.

‘Put me down,’ laughed Priscilla. ‘I can walk.’

Hamish put her down and just as he did so, the bell at the front police-station door rang shrilly and urgently.

They both looked at each other. The locals all used the back door. Only strangers rang the bell at the front.

‘It’ll only take a minute,’ said Hamish breathlessly. ‘Probably one o’ thae tourists lost something up on the moors.’

The wind was buffeting the police station and the blue lamp outside was swinging wildly as he opened the door. He dropped his gaze.

The small figure of Heather Baxter stood on the doorstep.

In her lilting Highland accent, she said, ‘I haff come to report a murder.’

‘Come in,’ said Hamish quietly. He took Heather’s cold, damp hand and led her through to the kitchen. ‘Hot, sweet tea,’ he said to Priscilla.

He pushed Heather into a chair and crouched down in front of her. ‘Who’s been murdered?’

‘Thon Sassenach, Peter Hynd.’

‘How wass he killed?’

She shook her head dumbly.

‘Where wass the body found?’

‘It has not been found.’

Hamish straightened up and sat down next to her. ‘Then how do you know he has been murdered?’

She looked at him with those odd grey eyes and then she pointed to her head. ‘I saw it in here,’ she whispered. ‘They all say he’s gone. He left a note. His things are gone. But I know he’s been murdered. I
feel
him around the village.’

Hamish took a mug of tea from Priscilla and handed it to Heather. ‘Drink this,’ he urged. ‘How did you get here?’

‘I drove in my faither’s truck. I tied blocks on my feet and drove. He’s drunk asleep. He did not go to the fishing.’

‘You’ve had a hard time at home recently, Heather,’ said Hamish, ‘and maybe that’s what’s been putting these thoughts in your head.’ She shook that head stubbornly. ‘This is what we’ll do. I won’t be booking you for driving without a licence. That will be our secret. But neffer do such a thing again. Then I will drive you back in the truck and Priscilla here will follow us. She’ll bring me back and then I’ll return in the morning and start asking questions.’

Heather looked up at Priscilla and a strangely feminine look for one of her tender years crossed her face. Her grey eyes slanted at Hamish. ‘I don’t want her.’

‘Then how am I to get back?’

‘I’ll drive myself,’ said Heather. ‘I’ve already broken the law driving here. One more time won’t matter.’

Hamish sighed. ‘I’d better get her back, Priscilla.’

‘That’s all right, Hamish,’ said Priscilla, making for the door. ‘See you tomorrow.’

‘I won’t be long,’ said Hamish defiantly. ‘Won’t you wait?’

‘Tomorrow,’ said Priscilla firmly.

Hamish felt a sudden flash of murderous anger. She was going to be a policeman’s wife. This was a fine start! But he waited patiently until Heather had finished her tea.

‘Where’s the truck?’ he asked.

‘It is outside at the side of the station.’

‘Come along then. I’ll follow you.’

She went outside and Hamish waited while she put on a man’s overcoat and cap and then strapped wooden blocks on to her feet so that she could reach the pedals. He waited until she had reversed out into the road, climbed into the Land Rover and followed her. In his lights, with her cap pulled down, she looked like a man. To his relief she drove quickly and competently over the roads and down into Drim. She parked outside, untied the blocks from her feet and climbed down from the truck. ‘They sleep like the dead,’ she whispered. ‘I’ll creep in. Don’t tell anyone. Chust come tomorrow.’

Hamish nodded and waited. She opened the house door gently and slipped inside.

He drove off, his thoughts grim. He hoped to God that Heather was mistaken, that Peter Hynd had simply taken himself off.

A sunny morning restored his spirits and banished most of the ghosts of the night before, although he was still furious with Priscilla.

He went straight to the general stores in Drim. ‘I heard that Peter Hynd had left,’ he said to Jock Kennedy. ‘When was that?’

‘Two weeks ago,’ said Jock. ‘Found a note from him pushed in the shop letterbox along with the key. Said he’d gone off south and left the sale of the cottage in the hands o’ Cummings and Bane, the estate agents in Strathbane.’

‘Still got the note?’

‘Yes, I hae it here.’ He ferreted around under the counter and came up with a folded piece of paper. Hamish opened it and read it. It was type-written and unsigned. ‘Got bored,’ it said, ‘and am putting the cottage up for sale. Could you give the key to any prospective buyer, Jock? The agents are Cummings and Bane, Strathbane. My solicitors are Brand and Mac-Dougal, Castle Wynd, Inverness. Peter Hynd.’ But the ‘Peter Hynd’ was type-written.

Hamish frowned down at the letter. ‘Any takers?’ he said at last.

‘Aye, there was a big fellow, a builder from Newcastle, up the other day. Hynd’s only asking fifteen thousand.’

‘I doubt if he’ll get that. Did he finish the drainage?’

‘No.’

‘Well …’

‘But the field at the back goes wi’ the house. This chap from Newcastle, he wass talking about maybe getting building permission. Wants it for a holiday cottage.’ And with a fine disregard for any European Market directives on hygiene, Jock spat contemptuously on the shop floor.

‘I’ve no doubt you’ll give him a right Highland welcome,’ said Hamish drily. ‘Let me have the key, Jock. I’ll take a look around.’

For one brief moment Hamish thought he was going to refuse, but after a short hesitation the big man took down a key from a nail behind the counter and handed it over.

Hamish left the Land Rover where it was and walked up to Peter’s cottage. He let himself in and stood sniffing the air. Towser, who had followed him in, sniffed the air as well. ‘Nobody been in here for a while,’ said Hamish. ‘Let’s look about.’

Peter had left the pots and pans and dishes behind but the camping stove had gone. There were half-empty packets of grocery goods in the cupboards. A small fridge was switched off and proved empty. At the back of the house were piles of wood and bricks, showing that Peter had meant to start on the extension. Tools were lying on the floor and a couple of trestles held planks waiting to be sawn. Hamish shook his head. Surely Peter would have wanted to finish the work and, therefore, get a better price. There were also piles of slates showing where he had meant to take off the iron roof and replace it with a proper one.

Hamish went through to the parlour, which Peter had used as a dining room-cum-sitting room. There was nothing of value left, no television, no radio, and no books, just some pieces of furniture. Hamish went back to the living room, which Peter had used as a kitchen. He picked up the ladder lying against the wall and climbed up to the trapdoor in the ceiling, and pushed it open and climbed through. He found himself in the bedroom. There was a low double bed against one wall, with a low table beside it. There were no sheets or blankets on the bed. He searched around the corners of the room, but all he could find was one hairpin. He held it up to the light coming through the skylight. It was a blonde-coloured pin. He put it in his pocket and climbed down the stairs again.

He scratched his head. Why would Peter leave a note with Jock Kennedy, of all people? He locked up and put the key in his pocket.

As he strolled back down, he could hear the beat of music coming from the community hall. He went up to it and pushed open the door. Only four women were gyrating to the music. He waited patiently until the tape finished and then approached Edie Aubrey. She pushed back her lank hair and blinked at him through her thick glasses.

‘Not many women,’ commented Hamish.

‘No,’ agreed Edie sadly, ‘things are not the same.’

‘Since Hynd left?’

‘Why did he go just like that?’ muttered Edie. She picked a towel up from a chair and wiped her forehead. ‘He might at least have called to say goodbye.’

‘Did anyone see him go?’ asked Hamish.

‘Nobody’s really spoken to me about it.’ Hamish turned and surveyed the women. Nancy Macleod was there, grey roots now showing in the black dye of her hair. She looked much smaller and older. Ailsa, Jock’s wife, was sipping coffee and talking to Betty Baxter. The other woman he did not know. They were all suddenly older, thought Hamish, as if the life had gone out of them. He approached Betty Baxter. ‘Is Harry at home?’

‘Aye, the silly fool got drunk and couldnae go to the fishing.’

‘I’ll maybe drop by for a word.’

‘Why?’ asked Betty sharply.

‘I’m trying to find out why Peter Hynd left, or if anyone saw him leave.’

‘And what’s that got to do with Harry?’

‘He may have heard or seen something, that’s all.’

‘There’s no crime,’ said Betty with a shrill laugh. ‘For heffen’s sake, the man’s gone, put his house up for sale, and that’s that.’

‘Nevertheless, I’ll be having a word with Harry.’ Hamish touched his cap and left.

Harry Baxter was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing in particular.

‘Rough night?’ asked Hamish sympathetically.

Harry stared at him moodily but did not reply.

‘Any reason why Hynd left?’ pursued Hamish.

Harry made an obvious effort to gather his wits together. ‘Och, he wass jist playing himself at being a Highlander. Gone back south, I believe.’

‘Did anyone see him go?’

‘Folks reckon he left during the night.’

‘Any trouble with the villagers before he left?’

‘Why should there be?’

‘Don’t be daft,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘All you men hated him and with good reason.’

‘He’s jist gone, that’s all. Haven’t ye mair to do than look for a murder that doesn’t exist?’

‘I didn’t say anything about murder. Where’s Heather?’

‘At school. School’s started.’

‘Keep an eye on that lassie o’ yours, Harry. I think those rows you’ve been having with Betty are upsetting her.’

‘Mind your ain business,’ snapped Harry.

Hamish decided to try Jimmy Macleod but when he went out to the Land Rover, his radio crackled into life. He looked at it in mild surprise. He hardly ever got a call on it. It was Detective Jimmy Anderson, asking him to report immediately to Strathbane, to the chief superintendent’s office.

Hamish’s gloomy thought was that his boss had finally got into the act and that promotion and Strathbane were an inevitability. He had a shrewd idea that hitherto the chief superintendent had kept apart from his wife’s ambitious plans.

But whatever had happened to Peter Hynd would have to wait for another day.

As he walked into police headquarters he was met by his bete noire, Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Blair’s fat features creased into a smile. ‘On yer way upstairs,’ he said. ‘My, my. Have fun.’

Hamish frowned. If Blair had got wind of any possible promotion for Hamish Macbeth, he would have been in a foul mood. With a sinking feeling he took the lift up to the sixth floor. The chief superintendent’s secretary, Helen Jessop, was typing efficiently. She looked up when he entered. ‘You’ll need to wait,’ she said, ‘he’s busy,’ and went on typing.

‘Any idea what it’s about?’ asked Hamish.

‘You’ll just need to find out,’ said Helen, ripping out one sheet and screwing in another.

‘Why don’t you have a word processor instead of that old-fashioned thing?’ asked Hamish.

‘This machine has served me very well. I don’t hold with computers,’ said Helen.

‘Meaning you don’t know anything about them and are too frightened to find out,’ said Hamish maliciously. ‘It’s known as technofear. The plague of the middle-aged.’

Helen snorted by way of reply.

‘Any chance of a cup of tea?’ asked Hamish.

‘No.’

Hamish sat and fidgeted. He could hear the hum of voices from inside Peter Daviot’s office. The shelf behind Helen’s desk was a jungle of depressing greenhouse plants. Secretaries with house-plants were a threatening breed, thought Hamish. As time dragged by, he grew more uneasy. It was like waiting outside the headmaster’s office. At last the door opened and five men in business suits came out.

‘I am about to interview the officer in question,’ said Mr Daviot, ‘and I will give you my full report.’

The suits turned as one man and looked Hamish up and down before filing out. One of the men’s voices floated back to Hamish’s sharp ears. ‘Doesn’t look violent, but you never can tell.’

‘Come in, Macbeth,’ said Mr Daviot. No ‘Hamish’. A warning sign like a stormcone hoisted over Hamish’s head. He tucked his cap under his arm and stood meekly in front of the super’s desk.

‘Sit down,’ said Mr Daviot. ‘Sorry to keep you waiting. Helen been looking after you?’

‘She refused to get me a cup of tea,’ said Hamish, hoping he was sliding the knife into Helen’s corseted ribs.

‘Come into the twentieth century, Macbeth. You don’t go around ordering tea from secretaries or they’ll report you to the Equal Opportunities Board or something.’

‘Why, sir?’

‘Making and fetching tea is demeaning.’

‘I don’t get it,’ said Hamish puzzled. ‘Isn’t it the same as “Type this letter,” “Make this phone call,” “Order flowers for my wife”?’

‘It implies you are treating a business woman like a housewife.’

‘I don’t get it. A housewife can say, “Get the damn thing yourself.” A secretary can’t.’

‘Because … Look, I did not bring you here to talk about Women’s Lib. There has been a serious charge laid against you.’

‘By whom?’

‘By Sammy Dolan.’

‘That toe-rag! What’s he saying?’

‘He’s filed a complaint of police brutality. He’s got a lawyer. He says you hit him with a frying-pan and he’s got a lump on his head to prove it.’

‘I hit him with the frying-pan because he was resisting arrest, or, to put it more bluntly, had I not hit him, he would have knifed me. I filed a full report.’

‘Just tell me again, in your own words.’

Hamish felt a stab of irritation. He suddenly wanted to say, ‘No, I’ll tell you in someone else’s words,’ and imitate Blair’s thick Glasgow accent and boorish manner.

‘I had reason to believe that Dolan meant to break into the schoolteacher’s house,’ he said patiently. ‘Just after two in the morning, I heard the sound of breaking glass in the kitchen and went through. Dolan had smashed the glass. He opened the catch and climbed into the kitchen. I switched on the light. He took a hunting-knife out of his boot and came at me. I reached behind me and picked up the frying-pan. Before he could knife me, I hit him on the head. He fell to the floor, stunned but still conscious. I handcuffed him to the cooker. I read the charge, phoned Strathbane, and waited until the van arrived. That’s all.’