Death of a Sweep (2 page)

Jimmy and Hamish struggled into their blue forensic suits and boots. ‘Now,’ said Hamish, his hazel eyes
gleaming
, ‘let’s see what we can find. I suppose the tyre iron and the jewellery and wallet have all been bagged up, but it’s that sidecar that interests me. We need luminol.’

‘What do you think this is?’ grumbled Jimmy. ‘The telly? Got a fingerprint kit?’

‘Got it with me.’

‘Okay, dust away. I’ll sit over there and watch you.’

Hamish carefully began to dust the sidecar and
motorbike
. He finally straightened up. ‘Whoever drove this wore gloves. When did Pete wear gloves?’

‘When he’d just murdered someone,’ said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.

‘But there are no fingerprints, and the sidecar has been wiped clean.’

‘Pete’s fingerprints were found on the candlestick and on the captain’s wallet.’

‘Aye, you can press a dead man’s hand on the stuff. I need a damp cloth.’

‘What for?’

‘Never mind. I’ll use my handkerchief.’ Hamish ran it under a tap and wrung it out. Then he bent into the
sidecar
and gently dabbed at the floor.

He straightened up. ‘There’s blood on the floor.’

‘Aye, well, laddie, there would be. The captain’s blood.’

‘What is going on here?’

Superintendent Daviot appeared in the doorway. ‘Macbeth, you are not a member of SOCO or forensics. How dare you tamper with evidence?’

‘Sir,’ said Hamish, ‘there’s blood in the sidecar, and I think you’ll find it belongs to Pete.’

‘What are you trying to tell me?’

Once more, Hamish expounded his theory.

‘I want you to get out of here and leave it to the experts,’ snapped Daviot.

‘I don’t think they were even going to bother,’ said Hamish. ‘It’s dangerous to let the real murderer go free.’

‘Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?’

Hamish raised his hands. ‘A brilliant man like yourself? Oh, no, sir, wasn’t I chust saying to Jimmy that a brain like Superintendent Daviot’s could never be fooled by faked evidence.’

Daviot shifted uneasily. He considered Hamish Macbeth a maverick but one who had an awkward way of getting things right.

‘Phone Forrest and get him back here,’ he said.

When Angus appeared, he was ordered to take samples of the blood from the sidecar and get the DNA checked as soon as possible. ‘And check those fingerprints on the wallet,’ said Hamish eagerly, ‘and see if they look genuine or if a dead man’s hand could have been used to make the marks.’

‘See to it,’ said Daviot. ‘On your way, Macbeth. Anderson, I want a word with you.’

As Hamish left, he could hear Angus’s protesting voice raised in anger. He looked at his watch. It was too late to call on Milly Davenport. He would go and see her in the morning. Why had the captain left his wallet behind? Or had it been taken from his body?

But on the following morning, Hamish received a call summoning him to police headquarters. On his arrival in Daviot’s office, he was told he was suspended pending inquiries into his unorthodox behaviour by investigating a crime scene when he did not have the necessary forensic skills.

‘You are so anxious to close the case, sir,’ said Hamish angrily, ‘that nothing would have been properly inspected.’

‘Don’t be insolent and get out of here before I fire you,’ said Daviot.

 Hamish met Jimmy Anderson on his way out. ‘I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, Jimmy.’

‘Not me. I know how to grovel and crawl when necessary.’

‘Do you think they won’t bother with the DNA?’

‘Oh, they’ll bother all right. Blair’s rubbing his fat hands and demanding a rush on it. He’s so confident of proving you wrong. Anyway, you’re in deep doo and I’d suggest you think about packing up your sheep. And you’re not to speak to the press. They’re all over the place.’

Jimmy watched as Hamish walked sadly away. He felt in sudden need of a drink. He went to the local pub near headquarters and ordered a double whisky. He turned and surveyed the bar; his eyes lighted on Tam Tamworth,
nicknamed
‘the pig’, because with his large ears and beefy face, short nose and pursed lips, he did look piggy.

Jimmy strolled over to him. ‘I’m not supposed to speak to the press,’ he said in a low voice, ‘but see if you can use this. Mention my name and I’ll have to kill you.’

‘So is it about thon murder?’ asked Tam.

‘Aye, thanks to our Hamish Macbeth, it may turn out to be two murders. Say you happened to have been passing the garage at the side o’ headquarters last night, this is what you heard.’ He rapidly described Hamish’s
suspicions
, saying that if Macbeth turned out to be right, he should be getting a commendation rather than suspension.

‘Man, what a story,’ said Tam. ‘I’m off. I can get it into the morning paper.’

Thanks to an excellent sports section, the
Strathbane Journal
had a good circulation. Daviot read it next morning with a sinking heart. Blair went out and got drunk, praying between drinks that the DNA would prove Hamish wrong. Headquarters was besieged by press and television demanding a statement. Hamish Macbeth was nowhere to
be found. He had packed up his camping equipment, taken his pets, and set off to hide out in the moors.

The previous forensic team had all been sacked because of too many reports of drunkenness. A new laboratory had been built and an expert from Glasgow coaxed up to head the new team. They worked long hours and at last had a full report. The blood in the sidecar belonged to Pete Ray. The fingerprints on the wallet and candlesticks had
obviously
been put there after the man was dead because it looked as if fingers had been simply pressed down on the items. Pete would have grasped the candlesticks, not put a neat set of fingerprints on them. His neck had not been broken by a fall; someone had broken it by twisting his head back. There were signs that Pete’s body had then been stuffed into the sidecar.

And there was worse. Angus Forrest had said there was no use bothering forensics with the motorcycle and sidecar. It was an open-and-shut case, in his opinion, and his superiors had told him to wrap it up fast.

Jimmy was told to get hold of Hamish Macbeth, return him to his duties, and keep away from the press. Phoning Hamish on his mobile, Jimmy gave him the good news. ‘But you’re to keep away for another week,’ he said, ‘until Daviot thinks the press have stopped looking for you.’

‘Suits me,’ said Hamish laconically, turning sausages on a frying pan balanced on a camp stove outside his tent.

‘Aye, but there’s something else. You’d better clear out that spare room at the station. You’re to get a constable. His name is Torlich McBain and he’s a wee sneak. I think he’s supposed to keep an eye on you and report to Blair. He’s a bit o’ a Bible basher. He’ll preach you the word.’

Milly Davenport had enjoyed a few days of what she guiltily thought of as freedom. The women from the village
were kind. She loved the gossip over cups of tea, and she loved the company.

They worked like a pack of guard dogs to keep the press away from her and give Blair a hard time. Blair had worked out a scenario in his fat brain where Milly had a jealous lover and would have browbeaten her had not the women sent a letter of complaint to Daviot.

But on the morning that Hamish Macbeth returned to his police station, Captain Henry Davenport’s sister, Miss Philomena Davenport, arrived at Milly’s house. ‘I’m come to stay with you, Milly,’ she said. ‘It’s what my dear brother would have wanted.’

Philomena was a tall woman with big hands and feet. She had cropped grey hair and slightly prominent pale green eyes. She was dressed in gear she considered suitable for the Highlands: knee breeches, lovat wool socks, a green army sweater, and a leather fleece.

She disapproved of Milly ‘consorting with the local
peasantry
’ and so banned them from the house.

Milly felt she had lost one bully only to find another.

Hamish watched sadly as a scrap dealer from Alness drove off with the contents of his spare room: an old fridge, bits of a plough, rusting screwdrivers, two old televisions, and myriad iron bits and pieces. Although he had previously cleaned it out, when the female constable who had nearly tricked him into marriage was supposed to take the room and was billeted at the manse instead, he had just put everything back in again. Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, arrived with a cleaning squad. A bed, wardrobe, and side table were delivered from a Strathbane shop, the bill to be footed by the police.

Torlich, nicknamed Tolly, arrived to take up residence. He had never risen in the ranks due to failing all the
necessary
exams. He was small for a policeman, with a wrinkled, sagging grey face and weak watery eyes.

‘I’ll let you get settled in,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m off to Drim to have a word with Mrs Davenport.’

‘That should be left to your superiors,’ said Tolly.

He had been told Hamish Macbeth was an easy-going layabout. But the hazel eyes that looked down into his own were as hard as stone. ‘You will do what you are told, Constable,’ said Hamish. ‘In future, you address me as “sir”. You have the day to get your things unpacked.’

He turned on his heel and marched out, followed by Sonsie and Lugs. Tolly decided to spend the time going through Hamish’s papers and belongings. If he was a spy, then he would be a good spy. God had given him this chance to prove his mettle.

Hamish drove to the captain’s house in Drim and rang the doorbell. A tall tweedy woman answered it. ‘I am Miss Davenport, my poor brother’s sister,’ she announced, ‘and Mrs Davenport has had enough of the police. Good day to you.’

The door began to close. Hamish put his boot in it.

‘Neffer let it be said that a lady like yourself is impeding the police in a murder inquiry,’ remarked Hamish, the sudden sibilance of his highland accent showing he was annoyed.

‘Who is it?’ Milly appeared behind her sister-in-law. ‘Oh, I remember you. Please come in.’

‘Milly, I do not think you are up to any more
questioning
,’ said Philomena.

‘As long as it isn’t that man called Blair, I don’t mind. Come in. Please leave us, Philomena.’

She led the way into the kitchen. ‘My name is Hamish Macbeth, from Lochdubh,’ said Hamish.

‘Yes, I remember. I phoned you.’

‘You’re probably tired of questions …’

‘I don’t mind,’ said Milly, ‘so long as you don’t shout at me.’

‘I am not the shouting kind.’

‘Tea?’

‘That would be grand.’

Milly plugged in the kettle. Hamish moved quickly to the kitchen door and jerked it open. Philomena, who had been leaning against it on the other side, nearly fell into the kitchen. ‘A bit o’ privacy, please,’ said Hamish and shut the door in her face.

‘I wish I could do that,’ said Milly mournfully. ‘She is so like her brother.’

‘Well, it’ll take you a good bit of time to get over your husband’s death.’

‘Milk?’

‘No, chust plain. Thank you. Now, Mrs Davenport, there is one odd thing. Why would your husband leave his wallet behind, or do you think it was taken from his body?’

‘I don’t know. I don’t think he planned to be away for long, but it was odd that he said if anyone called looking for him, I should say he had gone abroad.’

‘That does sound as if he was frightened of someone.’

‘Well, he did take against people. He had a phone call the evening before. When we lived in Surrey, he did annoy people.’

‘In what way?’

‘Well, he often had get-rich-quick ideas and would try to rope in some of his old army friends. I remember one of them wanted money back and shouted a lot.’

‘Who was it?’

‘I can’t rightly remember.’

‘So he could have tricked someone else out of money?’

‘It’s possible. Oh, dear. Maybe they’ll come looking for me.’

‘I shouldnae think so. Would you like me to put a guard on the house?’

‘It would certainly make me feel better.’

‘I’ll send someone over. It doesn’t matter what the weather’s like. Keep him outside the house. We’ll put him on night duty. Why did you come up here?’

‘Henry started going through house advertisements for property in the north of Scotland. I didn’t want to go. I liked Guildford. We had a nice little bungalow and I had a few friends.’

‘I want you to think hard and make me out a list of his old army friends. Which regiment?’ ‘The Surrey Infantry.’

‘I won’t be bothering you any more just now. I’ll call tomorrow. You look as if you could do with some fresh air. Why don’t you walk down to the village with me?’

‘Philomena doesn’t like me associating with the locals.’

‘Then she’ll chust need to lump it. Get your coat.’

‘You’d get a rare view of the loch if it weren’t for these bushes and trees,’ commented Hamish as they walked down the short drive.

‘I wouldn’t know how to begin to get rid of them,’ said Milly.

‘I know a couple o’ forestry workers who would be glad of a bit of extra work. They can keep the wood as payment.’

‘I don’t know what Philomena would think …’

‘It’s your house now. Not hers,’ said Hamish sharply. ‘I assume you inherit it?’

‘Yes, the police left me the will. Philomena phoned the solicitor in Inverness. She was quite angry about that. We had a joint account so money won’t be a problem, says the bank.’

‘And did he leave a lot of money?’

‘Enough to keep me for a few years, but after that I’ll need to try to sell this place. I will get his army pension, of course.’

‘Has your sister-in-law any money of her own?’

‘Yes, she is quite rich, I believe. You see, poor Henry’s parents had a falling-out with him and left everything to Philomena.’

‘It seems to me, Mrs Davenport, that she should leave quite soon.’

‘I daren’t ask her.’

‘You can’t have her staying on, unless of course she’s helping with the household expenses.’

‘Well, she isn’t,’ said Milly in a faltering voice. ‘The trouble is, Mr Macbeth, I am just like Henry always said I was – no backbone. What a depressing loch that is! Like a long black finger pointing out to the Atlantic.’

Although a pale sun was shining down on the huddle of village houses which lay on a little plateau above the sea, the light did not penetrate the dark waters of the loch where the steep mountains on either side plunged straight down, their scree-covered flanks only holding a few stunted bushes.

In the general store, Hamish stood patiently whilst Milly talked shyly to Ailsa Kennedy, the red-haired wife of the owner, and to two of the villagers, Edie Aubrey and Alice MacQueen.

Ailsa asked, ‘What do you do about the cleaning? That’s a rare big house to dust.’

Milly blushed. ‘We only used a few of the rooms. I do what I can.’

‘You puir wee lassie,’ said Ailsa. ‘You need help. We’ll be along this afternoon.’

‘I d-don’t know what my sister-in-law …’

‘Nonsense. She’ll be glad o’ the help. Will you be having a wake after the funeral?’

‘I don’t know when the procurator fiscal is going to
release the body. Besides, Henry did not believe in anything.’  

‘We’ll get the Church of Scotland minister,’ said Edie. ‘He would rather send a body to the next world with a Christian burial than have the poor soul put in the ground with nothing at all. I’ll ask him.’  

Milly began to cry, tears running down her face. A chair was found for her. Ailsa rushed off to the kitchen at the back and returned with a mug of tea into which she had put a generous slug of whisky. ‘Put that down ye,’ she ordered.  

When Milly had recovered, she said, ‘You are all so kind, but as to the cleaning, I am sure Philomena will not allow it.’  

‘We’ll see about that,’ said Ailsa. ‘Everything fixed up wi’ the lawyer?’  

‘Oh, yes.’  

‘That would be Byles and Cox in Strathbane?’  

‘Oh, no, Tarry and Wilkins in Inverness.’  

More women came into the shop, crowding around Milly and offering support. Ailsa nipped quietly into the back shop and phoned Philomena. ‘This is Tarry and Wilkins, solicitors,’ she said in a prim voice. ‘Mr Tarry has a letter left for you by Mr Henry Davenport with
instructions
it was to be handed to you personally on his death.’  

‘Is it another will?’ asked Philomena hopefully.  

‘That we don’t know, Miss Davenport. Only you can open the letter.’  

‘I’m setting off right away,’ said Philomena.

Hamish returned with Milly to her home, followed by six women carrying dusters, mops, and brushes. Milly was terrified. She felt sure that Philomena would order them all away.  

But her car was not there, and there was a note left for her on the kitchen table.

‘Dear Milly,’ she read. ‘Called away on urgent business. Back this evening.’

Hamish was amused. He was sure Ailsa had something to do with it.

‘Mrs Davenport,’ he said, ‘I will call on you tomorrow. Do try to find me a list of your husband’s friends.’

‘I promise,’ said Milly, and Hamish left behind him a cheery clatter of gossiping women.

When Hamish got back to the police station, he walked into his office and immediately sensed that everything had been searched.

Tolly came in and stood waiting. ‘Who are you spying for?’ demanded Hamish. ‘Blair?’

‘I would not stoop to do anything so low,’ protested Tolly. ‘I am a Christian and I always do my duty.’

‘Then you can start now. Get yourself over to Drim and stand guard on that house all night. I’ll relieve you in the morning.’

‘I haven’t had any sleep, sir!’

‘Get to it or I’ll put in a report on you. Do you think I don’t know when my papers have been searched? Go to it!’

Philomena arrived back from Inverness in a rage after having been firmly told that there was no letter for her, nor had they phoned. Milly was seated in the drawing room, watching television. She cringed when Philomena shouted, ‘What’s been going on here?’

The once dingy room smelled fresh and clean. Several pieces of the Swedish-type furniture had been removed and replaced with shabby but comfortable chairs the ladies of Drim had found in the attics. Milly switched off the television and said, ‘The local ladies came to help me clear
the house. I never liked that modern furniture, and it never suited this room.’

‘It was my poor brother’s choice. Get it back.’

The doorbell rang. ‘I’ll get it,’ said Philomena grimly. She opened the door and glared down at Tolly, who gave her an ingratiating smile. ‘I’m here to guard the house,’ he said. ‘I wondered if I could be having a chair to sit on and maybe a cup of tea.’

‘No,’ said Philomena, and slammed the door in his face.

When she returned to the drawing room, Milly was just replacing the phone receiver. ‘Who was at the door?’ she asked.

‘Just some policeman. He says he’s here to guard the house. Who were you phoning?’

‘Really, you go too far,’ said Milly. The doorbell rang again. Milly darted past her sister-in-law. ‘That will be for me.’

It was Ailsa. ‘Everything all right?’

‘Sort of,’ said Milly.

‘Don’t let her bully you. See you tomorrow.’

‘Who was that?’ demanded Philomena.

‘Just a friend,’ said Milly.

‘Now, listen to me,’ said Philomena, looming over her. ‘My brother believed in people knowing their place. He would turn in his grave if he thought you were consorting with the villagers.’

Milly sighed. ‘He’s not in his grave yet.’ And with a sudden spurt of courage, ‘If you go on nagging like that, Philomena, someone will murder
you
!’

Philomena slowly backed away. ‘I’m going to my room,’ she said. She felt suddenly nervous. What did she really know of Milly?

Tolly had retreated to his police car and started the engine and heater running. When he felt warm again, he switched
the engine off. He had hidden the police car a little way down the hill where he could still get a good view of the house. His eyes began to droop. The night was very still. Then he thought he saw a black shadow approaching the house. He straightened up and slowly got out of the police car without slamming the door behind him.

Taking his baton, he crept towards the house, his heart beating hard. He knew all of a sudden that he had been neglecting his duty by sitting in his car some yards away from the entrance.

He scurried up the short drive, looking to left and right. Tolly decided to call for backup. He wanted to stay alive to collect his pension in four years’ time. He took out his mobile phone. Then from behind him, the police radio in the car – which he had forgotten to switch off – crackled into life reporting a burglary down at the docks in Strathbane. ‘I need backup,’ he yelled into his phone. ‘Intruder at Drim!’

Something heavy struck him on the back of the head and he fell unconscious.

Lights went on in the house. Milly had heard Tolly’s call; it had awakened her from an uneasy sleep. Philomena joined her on the landing. ‘Call the police,’ she whispered.

‘Haven’t you got a mobile?’ asked Milly.

‘It’s downstairs in my handbag.’

‘Mine, too, and the phone’s in the hall. What are we going to do?’

Hanging on to each other, they crept down the stairs. Milly grabbed the phone in the hall and called the police.

Hamish Macbeth was awakened by the shrill sound of the telephone. He struggled out of bed, ran to the office, and
listened in alarm when he was told there was something bad happening at the Davenport house in Drim.

When he got there, the small figure of Tolly was being carried into an ambulance. Police Inspector Mary Benson was in charge of operations. She was a matronly looking woman whose grey hair and rosy cheeks belied a ruthless efficiency.

‘What on earth happened to the wee man?’ asked Hamish.

‘Someone bashed him on the head,’ said Mary. ‘He was just shouting something into his phone about an intruder when it happened.’

‘Is he bad?’

‘Looks bad. We can only hope for the best. You should have done the job yourself, Macbeth. His police radio was blaring away, enough to alert anybody that the house was watched.’

‘Whose fault is it that I was sent a dangerously inept policeman, ma’am?’

‘Don’t get cheeky with me. Join the search.’

‘Yes, ma’am,’ said Hamish gloomily.

‘We’d best get these women off to a safe house for a bit.’

Hamish went up the drive and round to the kitchen door, shining his torch on the ground, searching for
footprints
. But the ground was hard and dry, and a lot of the path was covered by weeds and heather. The captain, thought Hamish, must have had something that the murderer desperately wanted. And how had the man arrived? Had he left a car somewhere and walked over the hills?

He would need to return as soon as it was daylight and search again.

Milly had always wondered how any human being could take the life of another. But after a week in the safe house
in Strathbane with Philomena, she felt she understood. The ‘safe house’ was actually a small flat. She had to share a bedroom with her sister-in-law. At first, Philomena would not let her go out at all, saying it was not safe. Milly waited until she had fallen asleep one afternoon and waited until the policewoman on guard outside in her car had fallen asleep as well and walked down into the centre of the town.

The body of her husband was to be released the
following
week, and she would be returning home then to prepare for the funeral. She had given Hamish Macbeth the names and addresses of any of her husband’s old army friends that she could find after writing off to them herself and inviting them to the funeral. So far, not one had replied, even with a letter of condolence. Philomena had said that her brother had been very popular and that the police were probably intercepting the mail for security reasons, which police headquarters denied. ‘Well, they would say that,’ said Philomena, who felt she was always right about everything.

Milly was just wondering whether to buy herself the first pair of high heels she had had in ages – the captain had not approved of her wearing high heels – when a voice behind her asked, ‘Mrs Davenport?’

She swung round and backed nervously against a shop window. The man facing her looked like a large pig. ‘Yes, I’m one o’ thae dreadful reporters,’ he said cheerily. ‘My name’s Tam Tamworth. Fancy a drink?’

‘I mustn’t speak to the press,’ said Milly primly.

‘Och, it’s just the wee dram and I’ll gie ye a piece o’ paper saying I won’t print anything you say.’

Milly wavered. Then she thought of going back to that nasty little flat and being cooped up with Philomena. ‘All right,’ she said.

‘We’ll go to the Grand Hotel bar,’ said Tam. ‘Nice and posh. It’s just a few steps away.’

The cocktail bar of the Grand Hotel was a veritable symphony to Scottish bad taste. The walls were draped in tartan cloth and hung with plastic claymores and targes. There was a huge badly executed portrait of Bonnie Prince Charlie behind the bar. The plastic tables were made to look like tree trunks and covered in tartan coasters.

‘What’ll it be?’ asked Tam.

‘Just an orange juice.’

‘An orange juice after what you’ve been through? Have a Tartan Blaster.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Jist a mild cocktail.’

‘All right,’ said Milly boldly.

The Tartan Blaster arrived. It was a bright red drink decorated with two tartan umbrellas.

Tam had a double whisky. ‘What do you think of
Strathbane
?’ he asked.

‘It’s a bit, well, run-down,’ said Milly shyly.

‘Didn’t use tae be. Before the European Union got its claws into the fishing industry, this used to be a lively place. Now everyone’s on the dole. I’ll be covering your man’s funeral if that’s all right wi’ you.’

‘I don’t suppose I can stop you,’ said Milly. The liquor in the cocktail was sending a warm glow right down to her stomach. ‘And I can’t discuss anything with you, about the murder I mean.’

‘I’ll tell you one thing. It’s just come through. Trust Hamish Macbeth to get it right. Poor wee Pete Ray was murdered and by the same chap who did in your husband.’

Milly shuddered and took a large gulp of her drink. ‘That’s awful. Am I in danger?’