Death of a Policeman (8 page)

There was no point in watching an empty house. Hamish had a sudden longing to get inside the cottage to see if he could find anything incriminating. He was risking his job if he went in there without a search warrant. He looked around at the empty landscape and felt in his pocket for his skeleton keys.

He cautiously approached the door. He decided to try the handle before picking the lock. The handle turned and the door swung open. Hamish went inside. If caught, he could always say he had smelt gas.

Not only was the living-room-
cum
-kitchen deserted, but there were signs of hasty packing. The television had gone along with the plates, pots, and pans.

A large discarded packing case with a split in its side lay on the floor.

Hamish suddenly heard the sound of a vehicle arriving. He darted out of the unlocked back door. There was no garden, only heather and gorse. Hamish crouched down behind a gorse bush.

He could hear sounds of activity from inside. He crept up and looked through the small window at the back. Two men he did not recognise were hard at work. One was washing the floor with bleach while the other was wiping all the surfaces.

Hamish wriggled away as far as he could and then stood up and ran. When he thought he was a far enough distance away, he phoned Jimmy. He told him what he had seen. “They're covering up some crime,” he said.

“Sit tight,” said Jimmy. “I'll be over right away.”

Hamish returned to his post behind the gorse bush. He fretted that the men would be long gone before Jimmy arrived, but finally heaved a sigh of relief when he heard cars arriving.

He hurried round to the front of the house in time to hear one of the men saying, “We were just cleaning up. This is a rented cottage. Paolo's gone back to Spain.”

“You pair stay outside,” barked Jimmy. “Names?”

“I'm Andy Campbell and this is my brither, Davy.”

Jimmy turned to Hamish. “Get a suit and follow me in.”

Hamish borrowed a forensic suit from one of the policemen, covered his boots, and joined Jimmy inside the cottage.

“Keep ower by the door, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “A forensic team's on its road.”

“I guess the bedroom's upstairs,” said Hamish. “I wish we could take a look at it.”

“Well, we can't until forensics have done their work. We'll get this pair down to headquarters for questioning.”

It turned out to be a long day. The brothers did odd jobs for a company called Highland Rentals. Neither of them had a record. The initial forensic report said that strong bleach had been poured over the stone kitchen floor, and so far there was no sign of anything sinister. Paolo Gonzales had relatives in Malaga, and a check at Inverness airport showed he had taken a morning flight to Malaga the day before. The brothers were released.

“Waste o' time,” said Jimmy. “Go home, Hamish.”

Hamish drove out on the road to Lochdubh and stopped to let Sonsie and Lugs out for a run in the heather. He stared up at the starry sky and thought hard. There were still, he felt sure, a whole lot of questions that hadn't been asked. Who, for example, owned Highland Rentals? Their offices were in Strathbane. If he called on them in the morning, he would get a rocket from Strathbane for poaching on their territory.

Then he would like to see the CCTV shots of who exactly got on the Malaga plane. He suddenly decided to risk the wrath of the Inverness police and call at the airport in the morning. He could ask Inverness police to do it but they didn't know what Paolo looked like and he did. And it would mean waiting to try to find a photograph—and Hamish had a feeling that all photographs of the maître d' might have disappeared.

Jimmy phoned when he got back to the station. “Highland Rentals seems as clean as a whistle,” he said.

“Who owns it?”

“A woman called Beryl Shuttleworth. Actually she lives near your village. Got a place out past the Tommel Castle Hotel. Called The Firs.”

“I know that. I thought old Mr. Anstruther lived there.”

“You're not checking on the folk on your beat. He died a month ago, and his daughter sold it to the Shuttleworth woman.”

“I don't remember any funeral,” said Hamish, who knew that local funerals were a big event.

“He was originally from Somerset, and that's where the daughter took him to be buried.”

“I might call on her.”

“Don't! She's a friend o' Daviot's missus.”

“Is all investigation to be hampered because of Daviot's friends?”

“If you want to keep your station, you'll go carefully.”

“Did anyone think to check the CCTV cameras at Inverness airport to see if Gonzales really left?”

“Wait a bit…Some report's just coming in.”

Hamish waited, hearing exclamations and questions and then Blair's voice raging, “Get thon two back in here. Released? Which damn numpty let them oot?”

At last Jimmy came on the phone. “Bad news, Hamish.”

Hamish sighed. “It wasnae Gonzales who got on that plane with his passport?”

“That's it,” said Jimmy. “And the brothers, Andy and Davy Campbell, were released.”

“So what does the substitute look like? Anyone you know?”

“Same height, roughly the same features, but definitely not Gonzales.”

“Don't you see that all roads lead back to Murdo Bentley?”

“Get off that phone!” howled Blair's voice in the background, and Hamish was cut off.

Hamish went into the living room. “Dick, did you know about a newcomer to the area, Beryl Shuttleworth?”

“Oh, her. Aye. I called on her to say hullo about a month ago. Nice lady.”

“Why didn't you tell me about her?”

“Didn't seem important. You turned over the job of calling on the locals to me. What's the interest in her?”

Hamish told him about the disappearance of Gonzales. “I'll go and see her,” he said.

“Want me to come?”

“No. Are you absolutely sure that Hetty doesn't know anything? Might be an idea to keep after her.”

Dick repressed a shudder. Then he had an idea. “Instead of questioning Hetty again,” he said, “I could ask that other librarian, Shona, if Hetty said anything to her.”

“Good idea.”

Dick brightened. “Do you mind if I don't take Sonsie and Lugs with me?”

“No, it's all right. They can come with me.”

Followed by his pets, Hamish walked up to the manse. The minister's wife, Mrs. Wellington, was in her gloomy kitchen, taking a tray of scones out of the Raeburn cooker.

“Come in,” she said. “What do you want? Oh, leave those terrifying beasts of yours outside.”

Hamish walked out of the kitchen. “Stay!” he ordered.

When he went back in, Mrs. Wellington boomed, “A few centuries ago they would have burnt you as a warlock. It's unnatural for a cat to obey orders.”

Every time he saw Mrs. Wellington, Hamish felt a stab of pity for the mild-mannered minister. His wife was so domineering, so
tweedy
, with her round figure and bulldog face.

“What do you want?” she demanded.

“What sort of person is Beryl Shuttleworth?”

“Mrs. Shuttleworth to you. I don't hold with all this touchy-feely business of calling folk by their first names.”

“Okay, Mrs. Shuttleworth.”

“Nice lady. Comes to the kirk on Sunday which is more than you can say for a lot of the godless in this village.”

“What does Mr. Shuttleworth do?”

“She's a widow. Why are you so interested?”

“I like to call on newcomers to the area.”

“She's got an office in Strathbane.”

Hamish inwardly cursed. He had forgotten that. And he should have realised that the Inverness police would check at the airport to see if Gonzales really got on the plane.

He looked hopefully at the coffee percolator. Mrs. Wellington said, “No coffee for you. I do not encourage mooching.”

Hamish walked down the brae from the manse with the dog and cat at his heels. Dark clouds were streaming in from the west. Choppy waves raced over the surface of the loch. He had not heard the weather forecast but he was sure Sutherland was about to release one of its monumental gales on the landscape.

At the police station, he put his pets in the back of the Land Rover and drove off out of the village. He decided there might just be a chance of getting a break in the—now two—murder cases.

The Firs was a Scottish Georgian villa, standing on a rise, with a view down to the loch. It was made of sandstone and covered in ivy. The iron gates stood open. Hamish could not remember them ever being closed. There was a short twisting drive bordered by rhododendron bushes opening out into a circular gravelled area in front of the house. To one side of the house was a shaggy lawn with two stands of pampas grass.

Hamish got down from the Land Rover. He walked to one of the front windows and looked in. A woman was sitting reading a newspaper. He backed away hurriedly, went to the door, and rang the bell.

He could hear the click of high heels, and then the door opened.

“Mrs. Shuttleworth?” asked Hamish.

“If it's about Andy and Davy Campbell, I have already spoken to the police.”

“Just a few more questions. I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”

“I suppose you'd better come in.”

As he followed her trim figure, Hamish wondered what sort of woman wore a power suit to sit at the fire and read a newspaper.

She sat down in an armchair by the fire and indicated that Hamish should sit in an armchair opposite. Hamish removed his cap and put it on his knees.

Beryl Shuttleworth was a woman he guessed to be in her late forties. She had black hair worn in a French pleat. Her skin was good. She had a long thin nose and hooded eyes, giving her face a medieval look.

Hamish looked around the room. Apart from the comfortable armchairs and the heavy brocaded curtains at the long windows, it looked as if it had been furnished by Ikea. There was a modern wooden desk by the window with an Apple computer on top. Wooden shelves held various greenhouse plants and ornaments. There was a long plain wooden coffee table. In one corner was a very large flat-screen television.

“Are you going to sit there gawping?” demanded Beryl.

“Sorry,” said Hamish. “About the Campbell brothers, how did you come to employ them?”

“I advertised for a couple of odd-job men to do gardening work on my various properties as well as moving furniture and things like that.”

“Did you check their references?”

“I didn't ask for any. These days it's hard to get labour.”

“Did they usually clean places for you?”

“No, I have maids to do that. Look, I have already been asked all these questions and I don't see why I should have to waste time answering them again.”

Hamish smiled at her, a smile that lit up his thin face. “Persevering police like me can be a pain in the bum.”

She gave a reluctant laugh. “It was some detective called Blair. He ranted and raved at me.”

“Do you know Mr. Murdo Bentley?”

“Of course. I go to his restaurant quite often.”

“Do you know if he had ever employed the Campbell brothers before?”

“Mr. Bentley is not a close friend of mine. The Campbell brothers were odd-job men. They were not exclusive to me. Would you like some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

Hamish watched her as she left the room. No one would ever call Beryl beautiful, but she exuded a strong aura of sensuality. He looked longingly at the computer. He sometimes wished he could forge search warrants. Then his sharp eyes noticed a framed photograph on her desk. It had been placed facedown. Why?

He eased himself to his feet, darted across to the desk, and was just reaching out to lift the photo when he heard the clink of china as Beryl returned. Hamish sat down again hurriedly.

“Here we are.” She placed a tray on the coffee table. “Milk and sugar?”

“Just black, thank you.”

“So Mr. Macbeth…”

“Hamish, please.”

“Very well. Hamish, what do you do when you are not hunting down villains?”

“I've got a bit of a croft at the back of the police station. I keep sheep and some hens.”

“And are you happy with your life?”

“Most of the time. But not when I am investigating a murder like this.”

She was just in the act of pouring herself a cup of coffee. Her hand shook, and some coffee spilled over into the saucer.

Her eyes under their hooded lids were black, the kind of eyes that do not show any expression.

“Murder? But I thought you were trying to find a missing man and also to find out what the Campbell brothers were doing cleaning up his cottage. As I told Mr. Blair, I did not order them to do so.”

Hamish told her that Gonzales was still missing and that someone else had used his passport to leave the country.

She took a tissue out of a box and mopped up the spilled coffee from her saucer.

“It's all a mystery to me,” she said. “But I am sure that when you find Andy and Davy Campbell, all will be explained.”

Hamish noticed that the thought of the brothers being found did not seem to make her nervous.

“Why did you move to an isolated spot like this?” he asked. “It can get a bit grim in the winter.”

“I was brought up in a cottage on the Yorkshire moors. I like the countryside.”

Hamish fished out one of his cards and handed it over. “If you do hear anything, let me know.”

He rose to his feet. There was a landscape painting hanging over the desk. He walked over and studied it. He planned to say something like,
Did I knock this over?
and lift the photograph. But she had come up behind him and put an arm around his waist.