Death of a Valentine (15 page)

The story was in all the newspapers the next morning. The comic side of it was fully exposed.

Here was a dreaded hit man who had gone to sleep in a police station, been attacked by a cat, run through the village naked, and escaped dressed as a woman.

Only Josie knew what had happened. She thanked her stars she had been wearing gloves when she had left the whisky.

Roger sat in his dingy flat and cursed his luck. Everything had been left behind: his false papers, false credit cards, mobile phone, and prized deer rifle, not to mention his car.

Two days later, he looked out of his window and saw a low black Mercedes stopping outside his flat. His heart sank as he saw crime boss Big Shug climbing out of the car.

Roger shoved a pistol in the waistband of his trousers and went to open the door.

Big Shug looked like a prosperous Glasgow businessman from his well-tailored coat to his shining shoes.

‘Been reading about me, have ye?’ asked Roger. ‘Come in.’

‘I don’t go much by what the papers say,’ said Big Shug. ‘But I’ve got a difficult job and I want you to off someone for me.’

Roger said cautiously, ‘Are you sure the person you want to off isnae me?’

‘Come on, laddie. When have I ever let you down? This is a delicate one. It’s a woman. Anything against that?’

‘Not a thing.’

‘Why did you kill Barry?’

‘He would have talked and the drugs would have been traced right back to you.’

‘Aye, well, let’s get going.’

‘Now?’

‘No time like the present.’

‘Who is she?’

‘Tell you when we get there.’

Big Shug sat in the front with his driver and Roger sat in the back with one of his henchmen. No introductions were made. The Mercedes slid smoothly off.

‘Where are we going?’ asked Roger as the car began to drive along the Dumbarton dual carriageway.

‘Relax, laddie. A wee bit before Helensburgh.’

A thin mist was hovering over the Gairloch as the Mercedes slid into a deserted building site. ‘Where is she?’ asked Roger as he got out of the car.

‘Along presently.’

Big Shug whipped a gun out and shot Roger in the stomach. ‘That’s one for Barry,’ he said. ‘He was a pal o’ mine and he never would ha’ talked.’

He marched up to where Roger lay writhing on the ground and put two bullets into his head.

‘Right, lads,’ he said. ‘Get to work. This site’s held up forever waiting planning permission. Nobody’ll be along here for ages.’

His two henchmen dug a grave in the soft ground, dropped the body in, filled in the hole, and patted it flat with the backs of their spades.

They all got into the Mercedes and drove off.

Two little boys crouched behind a rickety wall of planks, having seen the whole thing. Rory Mackenzie was eight years old and his brother, Diarmuid, ten. ‘Do you think yon was real?’
whispered Rory. ‘Maybe they was filming
Taggart.’
He was referring to a popular Scottish television crime series.

‘I think we’d better tell the police anyway.’ Diarmuid took out his much-prized mobile phone and dialled 999.

The murders of Mark Lussie and Annie Fleming had disappeared from the newspapers and from any of Strathbane’s investigations. Hamish greeted the news of Roger
Burton’s murder with relief. It was Strathclyde’s case, and, as he alone was still determined to solve the local murders, he was happy to let them get on with it.

Strathbane was a violent town, and the police were used to having unsolved murders on their books.

Josie begged leave to visit her mother, and Hamish let her go. Flora McSween welcomed her daughter and asked how her ‘romance’ with Hamish was getting on.

Josie said that Hamish had taken her to a local dance, and Flora eagerly begged for details. Not wanting to disappoint her mother, Josie gave a highly embroidered account full of ‘speaking
glances’ and ‘warm clasped hands’, which, to a less woolly-minded romantic than her mother, would have sounded like something out of the pages of a Victorian novel.

But as she talked, Josie’s imagination, fuelled by a generous glass of whisky, began to make her lies become reality. Acute jealousy made her think of Priscilla as a rival, although she
did not tell her mother that Hamish had gone off with Priscilla and had not returned until the following day.

Then Flora said, ‘I’ve been meaning to throw a lot of old stuff out of the attic. It’s been up there for years and years. Some of it’s even your Great-Great Aunt
Polly’s belongings. I know they’re a part of family history but I thought some of the old clothes could go to the local dramatic society.’

‘I’ll have a look tomorrow,’ said Josie.

On the following morning, Josie, nursing a hangover, climbed up to the attic, a small room at the top of the Victorian house which had once been used by a maid. Her mother
followed her. ‘Look at all this stuff,’ said Flora. ‘What I want you to do, pet, is take a look through it and see if there’s anything you want. I phoned the dramatic
society and a couple are coming around this afternoon. I’ll leave you to it.’

Josie sat down and gloomily surveyed the jumble piled up around the room. Her mother had already labelled several of the old steamer trunks CLOTHES, PHOTOGRAPHS and SHOES.

Feeling she could not really be bothered and wondering whether her mother had any Alka-Seltzer in the house, Josie decided to sit as long as she could, nursing her hangover, and then say there
was nothing she wanted. She had no interest in family history. There were plenty of photographs downstairs of her late father whom she dimly remembered from her childhood as being an angry violent
man, particularly on Friday evenings when he came back from the pub.

Her eyes fell on an old desk in the corner. It had a square wooden box on the top. Josie rose to her feet. Her mother had not said anything about jewellery. But perhaps there might be something
valuable in there.

She opened the lid. It was full of old bottles of medicine and pillboxes. She was about to close the lid again when she noticed that one dark green bottle with a stoppered top had fallen on its
side. It was labelled LAUDANUM. She lifted it out. It was full. She remembered reading in historical romances that laudanum was tincture of opium. She looked down into the jumble of medicines and
found another bottle, also full.

After her failure to drug Hamish, she had vowed she would never, ever do anything so crazy again. But . . . maybe she would take them. You never knew . . .

Hamish meanwhile had set out to interview all the women in the case again. He was having a hard time with Cora Baxter, who seemed to think it the height of impertinence that a
lowly police sergeant should dare to question a councillor’s wife. Hamish first asked her if she had visited the town hall on the evening Mark Lussie was murdered and then asked her if she
had, or if she knew anyone who had, a knowledge of chemistry.

Her formidable bosom heaved. ‘Are you daring to suggest that
I
had anything to do with Annie’s murder? I shall report you to your superiors.’

‘By all means,’ said Hamish, hoping she would do so and that his sergeant’s stripes would be removed along with Josie. ‘I am simply –’

The door to the living room crashed open and Jamie Baxter strode in. ‘What’s going on here?’

‘Oh, Jamie,’ wailed Cora. ‘This terrible man is accusing me of murder!’

‘This is too much, Macbeth,’ said Jamie. ‘Get out of here this minute and don’t ever bother my poor wife again.’

Hamish tried to protest that he was only doing his duty but he was firmly shown the door.

He trudged along to Mrs McGirty’s. As the frail old lady answered his knock, Hamish realized that she was the last person in the world to make a letter bomb, but maybe she heard useful
gossip.

‘Come in,’ said Mrs McGirty. ‘I’ll put the kettle on. Go into the living room and take a seat.’

He was glad to see she had a real fire. He remembered his mother telling him that at one time when the Hydro Electric Board had started up, the Highlands were promised cheap electricity.
Fireplaces were blocked up and electric fires placed in front of them: old oil lamps which now would fetch a good bit of money in some auction room were tossed out with the rubbish. The electricity
turned out to be expensive but a lot of people kept the electric fires, the house-proud ladies of the Highlands claiming that peat and coal fires caused dust.

The small room was cluttered and cosy, the sofa and armchair being covered in paisley-patterned cotton slipcovers. There was a highland scene above the fireplace, darkened by years of smoke from
the coal fire.

Mrs McGirty came in carrying a laden tray. ‘Now there’s tea and some of my scones, Mr Macbeth. Help yourself.’

Hamish did, realizing he was hungry. When he had drunk two cups of tea and eaten two scones, in-between-times talking about the weather, he asked, ‘Have you heard any gossip in the town
about anyone who might have wanted to murder Annie?’

‘Too much gossip,’ said Mrs McGirty, shaking her old head. ‘Quite terrible it is. Who would have thought that Annie Fleming was so bad? Folks have only just started telling me
about her.’

‘The thing is,’ said Hamish, ‘thon letter bomb would have to have been made by someone with a knowledge of chemistry.’

‘Maybe not.’ The old lady’s shrewd eyes looked up at him. ‘You can get all the information on stuff like that off the Internet these days.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I looked it up myself. I have the computer. That way I keep in touch with the relatives in Canada.’

‘But where would anyone get the chemicals?’

‘They’re easily come by. Any schoolboy could probably pinch them out of the laboratory at school.’

Hamish stared at her, his cup of tea halfway to his mouth. Sol Queen, the chemistry teacher, was too sane, too old, and too respectable. What about a schoolboy? Annie had only really been
interested in older men, except that she had wound up Mark Lussie and Percy Stane.

He put his cup down in the saucer. ‘Did you see Bill Freemont visiting Annie when her parents were out?’

‘I saw his van outside and then after a bit I saw him come out of the house and get into it. I never thought one bad thing. I only thought it was nice of her boss to call on her when she
was off sick.’

‘No one else?’

‘Not that I know. But I spend a lot of time on the computer. It’s the great thing for an old body like me.’

‘I have so many suspects my head’s in a whirl,’ said Hamish. ‘But there was some phone call from Mark to the town hall before he died.’

‘Maybe the girl on the switchboard could help.’

‘Iona Sinclair? I’m afraid not. She gets so many calls asking to be put through to one department or another.’

‘I did hear there was a bit of a row over Annie being the Lammas queen two years running. Iona was bitter, folk are saying. But, och, it is terrible in the town with everyone hinting that
it could be this one or that one.’

‘I forgot to ask Iona,’ said Hamish, ‘if there is someone who relieves her at the switchboard. I mean, what happens when she goes for lunch?’

‘The town hall shuts between one and two.’

‘But say she wanted to go to the ladies’ room?’

‘You’ll just need to ask.’

When Hamish left her, he looked at his watch. It was just before one o’clock. He sped off to the town hall and parked outside.

He waited, hoping that Iona would emerge and not settle for sandwiches at her desk. When he saw her come out, he jumped down from the Land Rover and went to meet her.

‘Iona! I would like to be having a wee word with you. What about lunch?’

‘Wouldn’t mind. I usually go to Jeannie’s in the High Street.’ Jeannie’s was a café run by a bad-tempered matron but popular because of the good quality of
the snacks she served.

They both ordered Welsh rarebit and a pot of tea. ‘Now, Iona,’ began Hamish, ‘what happens when you have to leave the switchboard? Who relieves you?’

‘Anyone who happens to be passing. Or I phone someone like, say, Jessie Cormack and ask her if she would mind taking over while I have a pee.’

‘So,’ said Hamish, ‘let’s go back to the day Mark Lussie was murdered. Just before you closed for the evening, did anyone take over for you?’

She wrinkled her brow. Then her face cleared. ‘Oh, I mind fine. I was bursting and Mrs Baxter was just coming out of her husband’s office. So I called to her and asked if Jessie was
very busy because I had to go to the loo and herself says, “Run along. I’ll do the board for you.”’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘’Course I’m sure. I’m hardly likely to forget Mrs High and Mighty stooping to help someone like me out.’

‘But you didnae say anything about this when I first questioned you.’

‘You were asking me about calls I put through and it fair flustered me and I forgot about Mrs Baxter.’

‘I heard you were bitter about Annie being made Lammas queen two years running,’ said Hamish.

‘I was right furious. I went around swearing I’d kill the conniving bitch.’ Iona turned red. ‘I didn’t, mind. I wouldn’t. The provost, Mr Tarry, got to hear
about my complaints and he sent for me and told me if I wanted to keep my job, I’d better shut up. He said the council had voted unanimously for Annie. Annie flirted with anything in
trousers. She probably went out of her way to make sure she’d be elected.’

Hamish drove her back to the town hall and then braced himself to go and confront Cora again. To his relief, he saw that her husband’s car was no longer outside the house.

The curtain twitched as he walked up the front path and rang the bell.

Cora answered the door, her well-upholstered bosom heaving with outrage. ‘You dare to come here again!’

‘Now, now,’ said Hamish soothingly. ‘We may haff got off on the wrong foot. I haff chust learned that on the day Mark Lussie was murdered, you took over the switchboard for a
wee while. I need to ask you about that for, you see, the last call Mark Lussie made was to the town hall.’