Death of a Policeman (9 page)

“I've enjoyed our visit,” said Beryl, urging him towards the door. “But I do have work to do.”

She gave him a push. “Goodbye, Hamish Macbeth.”

Outside, he sat in the Land Rover and wondered if he was placing too much importance on that photograph.

He decided to send Dick in plainclothes down to her office in Strathbane. He could collect a brochure, find out where the cottages to rent were, and then see what sort of people rented them.

The gale was howling straight in from the Atlantic, over the Gulf Stream, bringing a false warmth of spring. Hamish stood by the Land Rover, remembering as a child how he had cartwheeled before the wind. He wondered if he could still do it. The wind was at his back. He suddenly took off down the drive, performed five cartwheels, and returned to the Land Rover in triumph. Beryl watched him through the window. The man's nothing but a fool, she thought, and picked up the phone.

Dick was having lunch with Shona. Outside the café, the wind howled and screamed, sending rubbish flying along the street.

“So you want me to spy on Hetty?” Shona was asking.

“Not spy, exactly. Encourage her to talk about Cyril. He seemed to think he was going to come into money.”

“I'll try. But Hetty treats me a bit like an underling, not as a friend. They must have searched Cyril's lodgings in Strathbane. Didn't they find anything?”

Dick took out his iPad and flicked through his notes. “No. Nothing there.”

“But you think Cyril was into something crooked?”

“Must have been to get murdered so brutally.”

“I know,” said Shona. “I'll suggest to Hetty that we have a drink after work. She can't resist the offer of a drink.”

“That's very good of you.” Dick gazed into her eyes, and then sharply reminded himself of the age difference.

Shona glanced at her watch and gave an exclamation. “I'd better get back.” Dick paid the bill and escorted her outside. The wind seized his cap and sent it flying off down the street. By the time he retrieved it and turned around, Shona had disappeared into the library.

In the following weeks, Hamish began to feel they would never get anywhere.

Before, he had experienced an intuitive feeling that his life might be in danger, but now, even that feeling had gone. He had forgotten all about the awards ceremony until reminded by a nervous Angela, saying her husband was ill and he would have to escort her.

Delighted to have an opportunity of seeing the inside of Seven Steps again, Hamish gladly agreed.

To his surprise, Angela had hired a white Mercedes limousine and driver to take them there. Her usually wispy hair had been firmly rolled and set into ridged curls and waves. Her face was a mask of make-up, and her frightened eyes shone out of circles of black eyeliner.

She was wearing a tailored blue silk evening coat over a long blue sequined gown. “Aren't you going to be cold?” asked Hamish.

“No. We're to make an entrance up the red carpet and be photographed. The car's warm and the restaurant will be warm. You'd better leave your coat in the car.”

Photographers were massed outside the restaurant. They were all quite young, and Hamish did not recognise any of them. He cynically wondered if the sofa company had hired them for the evening from some local camera society.

They shouted, “Turn this way, T. J.,” and Angela shot delighted smiles all round.

“Who's T. J.?” asked Hamish.

“I forgot to tell you. That's my new writing name, T. J. Leverage.”

Angela's new editor came forward to meet them. “This is Charles Davenport,” said Angela. “Charles, my husband couldn't make it. This is Hamish Macbeth.”

Charles ignored Hamish. “Now, you're about to be welcomed by Strathbane Television. You just say a few words. It's being pre-recorded. It goes out next Monday.”

A thin anorexic woman held out a microphone. “What do you think of the event, T. J.?”

“It seems very nice,” said Angela.

The presenter put her hand over the microphone and glared at Angela. “We'll do that again. You are to say that it's all very exciting.”

Angela did as ordered but in a weak, small voice. “Now you go to the green room with me,” said Charles. “They're going to do a full interview with you.”

At a half-screened-off area, a writer with a long white beard was saying how much the hills and heather had inspired him.

“Who is going to interview Angela?” asked Hamish.

“The sofa company director's missus, Joan Bramston.”

“What's that?” asked Angela.

“Nothing important,” said Hamish quickly. He did not want to depress Angela by telling her she was about to be interviewed by some businessman's wife who wanted her moment of glory.

At last Angela was ushered forward. She found herself facing a well-upholstered woman who was encased in gold sequins. She had a fat, truculent face.

The interview began. “What made you change your writing?” asked Joan. “Did you decide to cash in on a more popular market?”

“No, I…”

“A lot of writers do that. Don't you think it is immoral to glorify murder?”

“No,” replied Angela and then was at a loss for words.

At last, she was released after several more questions, feeling as if she had been mugged.

“Now we go through to the dining room,” said Charles.

“Wait a bit,” said Hamish. “Angela, there are lassies over there doing make-up. Might be an idea to let them do a professional job.”

Demoralised, Angela agreed. The transformation was quick and successful. Her face had been expertly made up and her rigid hairstyle loosened.

They made their way to the dining room. Their table was at the very back of the room. Their dining companions introduced themselves. Angela promptly forgot all their names in her nervousness. But as the conversation started, she found she was the only writer at the table apart from a surly young man in a polo-neck sweater who said he wrote children's stories. The other three men turned out to be shopkeepers from Strathbane.

Charles Davenport was a nervous young man. “This is not what I expected, Angela,” he said. “We're not in a very prominent position. And we're out of the range of the cameras.”

“Oh, dear,” said Angela. “The whole village is going to be watching to see me on television and there'll only be that horrible interview.”

Hamish noticed Murdo at a central table with Anna Eskdale at his side. Then he saw Superintendent Daviot and his wife joining them.

Before the fiction awards, there were awards for various things to members of the sofa company's staff. The waiters were diligent at keeping glasses filled. Food was not to be served until the awards were over.

At last it was time for the fiction awards. The first award was for the children's writer at Angela's table. He was very drunk and weaved his way up to the podium where he was violently sick. There was a delay while he was helped off and taken somewhere in the nether regions. Angela had stopped drinking wine a long time ago and Hamish was fed up downing glasses of mineral water.

The next award was to “Scotland's foremost poet, Annie McSporran, who, we are proud to say, works in our accounts department.”

A thin woman dressed head-to-foot in grey cashmere accepted a glass trophy in the shape of a sofa. She seized the microphone. “I am very honoured,” she said. “And I am going to read you some of my latest poems.”

“Aw, naw!” cried a red-faced man. “Whar's the food!”

In a thin reedy voice, Annie began to declaim:

Hamish forgot that he had hoped to do some detective work. He was so sorry for Angela. The evening was turning out to be a nightmare.

He turned to Charles. “Did you bring any of Angela's books?”

“Yes, I've got a bag of them at my feet.”

“Excuse me.” Hamish slipped off and made his way to where a man he identified as a producer from Strathbane Television was standing. “How's it going?” he asked.

“Hellish,” said the producer. “They're one of our main advertisers so we'll need to try to get something out of it.”

“At my table is T. J. Leverage, who's written a grand detective story. She's from Lochdubh and I'm the local police sergeant, Hamish Macbeth. Let me introduce her. Give you a bit o' colour.”

At the end of the awards to what turned out to be several undistinguished authors, the thin presenter stepped up to the microphone.

“We now have a special event,” she said, “and then the banquet will be served.”

“About time, too,” yelled someone.

“Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth! Step up to the podium.”

“Make it short, laddie,” said a man as Hamish made his way through the tables. “We're all starving.”

Hamish seized the microphone. “We are honoured to have with us tonight T. J. Leverage, whose detective story
A Very Highland Murder
is set to top the charts. I am a police sergeant and can assure you that her grasp of police work is accurate. She has copies of her books and will sign them. Try to grab a first edition. Ladies and gentleman, a round of applause for T. J. Leverage.”

Charles led Angela up to the podium. Hamish turned and saw a vase of flowers behind him. He lifted the flowers out and handed them to Angela.

“Well, Angela,” said the presenter, elbowing Hamish aside with one bony elbow. “How are you enjoying the evening?”

“I am having a wonderful time,” said Angela, “but as everyone is so hungry, that is all I have to say.”

A great cheer followed her all the way back to the table, everyone delighted at the brevity of her speech. Water from the flowers Hamish had taken out of the vase dripped down her silk coat.

The Seven Steps had a well-deserved reputation for food, but as the sofa company was footing the bill, it turned out to be what Hamish damned as banquet food. The first course was a tiny vol-au-vent filled with mushrooms in a white sauce. This was followed by a piece of chicken breast flanked with two pieces of canned asparagus and ersatz mashed potato. The dessert consisted of one chocolate brownie and a dab of ice cream.

“Excuse me,” said Hamish. He wanted to get through to the back premises to see if he could find anything fishy.

As he was about to leave the restaurant, a waiter barred his way. “May I help you, sir?”

“Gents,” said Hamish curtly.

“On your left and down the corridor as you go out of the door.”

Hamish walked along the corridor. He turned and looked back as he reached the toilet door. The waiter who had accosted him was watching him. Hamish went in and closed the door. He was pretty sure that when he came out again, that waiter would still be there, making sure he returned to the banquet.

He passed the urinals, went into the one stall, and closed the door but did not lock it. He climbed up on the toilet seat and then clambered up on top of the cistern, praying it would take his weight.

Hamish stood awkwardly, his head and shoulders pressed against one wall and his feet braced against the other.

Then he realised it was going to be embarrassing if any guest entered the stall.

But after five minutes, he heard the door to the toilets open and a voice called, “Anyone here?”

The stall door opened. Hamish held his breath as he got a glimpse of the waiter. Then he listened until he heard the waiter go away. He slowly eased himself down, exited the gents, and went along the corridor to the back regions. He opened a few doors: storeroom full of crates of bottles and cans of vegetables in one, cleaning supplies in another. He came to a locked door at the end. It was only a Yale lock. He took out a thin strip of metal from the pocket of his evening suit, inserted it in the door, and sprang the lock. He let himself in and locked the door behind him just as he heard voices coming along the corridor. One voice said, “How could ye lose him?”

Hamish took out a pencil torch and flashed it around. He was in an office. There was a desk with a computer on it and a large safe in the corner. He stiffened as he heard them outside the door. They tried the handle and then walked away again.

Hamish sat down behind the desk and switched on the computer. It seemed to be full of innocent business files. He sighed. He was no expert. If there were any hidden files protected by a password, he wouldn't even know where to begin.

He opened the desk drawers. Nothing but stationery except for the bottom drawer, which was locked. Then he heard a woman's voice. “Are you sure you looked everywhere? What about here? Who has the key?”

Hamish looked around. There was a window behind the desk but it was barred. He went over and stood behind the door. It might just work. He was sure the female voice had belonged to Anna Eskdale. But he then thought that it was only in movies that no one looked round the door. He cautiously opened it, slid out into the corridor, dived into the nearest storeroom, and crouched down behind a pile of boxes.

He heard them come back, the jingle of keys, and then the office door being opened. “Nothing here,” said a man's voice.

Anna's voice again. “Try the sheds at the back. That's the last place we want him to see.”

Now, that's interesting, thought Hamish. He waited until he heard a door at the far end of the corridor open and close and then hurried back to the restaurant.

As he entered, it was suddenly like a game of musical chairs. It was as if all the waiters had suddenly frozen before going about their work.

“I've signed twenty books,” said Angela, her face pink with pleasure.

“Good for you,” said Hamish.

Anna Eskdale came into the restaurant. Before she sat down, her eyes flicked briefly to Hamish.

What was in those sheds at the back? wondered Hamish. He did not have any evidence to justify a raid on the premises.

Angela, crumpled up in a corner of the Mercedes on the road home, said, “I feel such a fool, Hamish.”

“Why? Not your fault it was such a lousy evening.”

“It's the money I wasted on this stupid outfit.”

“You look grand.”

“I could have worn an old sweater and jeans for all the difference it would have made.”

“Now, then, you'll just have to get that man of yours to take you somewhere you can wear it again.”

“I think the shop overcharged me.”

“Why would they do that?” asked Hamish.

“Because the only time you read about authors' advances in the papers is when they get thousands. People think we're rolling in it.”

“I'm sure they didn't. Relax, Angela. It's all over and you'll look grand on the telly.”

“Can I watch it on Dick's big flat-screen?”

“Sure. I'll give you a spare key in case we're both out.”

“Stopped leaving it up on the gutter?”

“Aye.” Hamish had not but he planned to do so as soon as possible. His thoughts flew back to the restaurant. There had been an air of menace.

Dick was waiting up for Hamish. He handed him a brochure. “That's Beryl's rentals. I went round a few of them. Seems all aboveboard. How was the banquet?”

“Awful. But wait until you hear this.”

Hamish told Dick about his adventures and ended by saying, “I'll phone Jimmy in the morning and see if he can think of some excuse to let us get a look at them. Sonsie and Lugs have a bit too much weight on them. I'm feeling restless. I think I'll take them for a walk.”

“It's one on the morning!”

“I'm restless. The gale has died down and it's a grand evening.”

The animals stretched and yawned and lazily followed him out onto the waterfront.

Hamish leaned against the waterfront wall and looked around. This was why, he reflected, he could never leave Lochdubh. The crescent of white cottages curved round to the humpbacked bridge at the end of the village. Smoke from peat fires rose lazily up into the vast starry sky. And it was that West Highland smell of home: tar and salt, evergreens and thyme, like no other smell in the world.