Death of a Village (3 page)

‘Dear me, you’d better get up there and diffuse the situation.’

‘Anderson’s up there.’

‘Go yourself. This requires the attention of a senior officer. And tell Macbeth to report to me immediately.’

When Daviot returned to police headquarters, he was told to his surprise that Hamish Macbeth was waiting to see him. ‘That was quick,’ he said to his secretary,
Helen. ‘Where is he?’

‘In your office,’ said Helen sourly. She loathed Hamish.

Daviot pushed open the door and went in. Hamish got to his feet clutching a sheaf of photocopied papers.

‘What’s this all about, Macbeth? I hear there has been a complaint about you.’

‘It’s about Teller’s grocery,’ said Hamish. ‘He claims to have had all his booze stolen, booze that was supplied by Frog’s. These are photocopies of the
account books at Frog’s. They are an eye-opener. The last delivery to Teller is recorded in one set of books. But this other set shows five more shopkeepers from all over who claimed
insurance and were paid fifty per cent of the insurance money.’

‘How did you come by this?’

‘Dunblane, the boss, and two others were out. I know the temp. She let me into the safe.’

‘Macbeth! You cannot do that without a search warrant!’

‘So I need one now. The temp won’t talk. We’d better move fast.’

‘I sent Blair up to Braikie because Teller was threatening to sue. I’ll issue that search warrant and we’ll take Detective MacNab and two police officers and get round
there.’

It was late evening by the time Hamish Macbeth drove back to Lochdubh. He was a happy, contented man. Blair had returned from Braikie in time to hear about the success of the
operation. The five other shopkeepers were being rounded up. They had claimed on supposedly stolen stock, taken it themselves and hidden it. So they gained half the insurance money and still had
their stock after they had paid Dunblane.

That strange half-light of a northern Scottish summer where it never really gets dark bathed the countryside: the gloaming, where, as some of the older people still believed, the fairies lay in
wait for the unwary traveller.

As Hamish opened the police station door, Lugs barked a reproachful welcome. Hamish took the dog out for a walk and then returned to prepare them both some supper. There came a furious knocking
at the kitchen door just as he had put Lugs’s food bowl on the floor and was sitting down at the table to enjoy his own supper.

He opened the door and found himself confronted with the angry figure of Mary Bisset’s mother.

‘You leave my daughter alone, d’ye hear?’ she shouted. ‘She’s only twenty. Find someone your own age.’

Hamish blinked at her. ‘Your daughter was of great help in our inquiries into an insurance fraud,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t tell her what it was about but promised to take
her out for dinner by way of thanks and tell her then.’

‘Oh, yeah,’ she sneered. ‘Well, romance someone of your own age. You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Casanova!’

And with that she stormed off.

Hamish slammed the door. Women, he thought. I’m only in my thirties and I’ve just been made to feel like a dirty old man.

Hamish sat down at his computer in the morning to type out a full report of the insurance frauds. His long fingers flew rapidly over the keys. It was still sunny outside and he
was anxious to get out and go about his normal business of sloping around and gossiping with the villagers.

The phone rang. He looked at it reluctantly for a few moments and then picked it up. ‘Hamish?’ said a scared little voice. ‘It’s me, Bella Comyn.’

‘Morning, Bella. What can I do for you?’

‘I’m frightened, Hamish. I want to leave him but I’m frightened of what he’ll do.’

‘Where is he at the moment?’

‘He’s down at the slaughterhouse in Strathbane.’

‘Give me half an hour and I’ll be over.’ Hamish typed busily, finished the report, sent it over to police headquarters, and then decided to find out what was up with Bella.

He turned over in his mind what he knew about her and her husband, Sean, while he drove out in the direction of their croft. Sean had reached the age of forty, two years before. He was a quiet,
taciturn man. Then he came back from a trip to Inverness with a new bride – Bella. Bella was fifteen years younger than he, and the locals had murmured that never was there a more unsuitable
crofter’s wife. She wore flimsy, flirty clothes and could be seen teetering around Lochdubh in unsuitable high heels. She giggled and prattled and had seemed relatively happy.

Hamish parked his car outside their whitewashed croft house and knocked on the door. Bella opened it. ‘I’m right glad you’ve come,’ she said. ‘I’ve been
wondering what to do.’

Hamish removed his cap and followed her into the kitchen.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’

‘Maybe later. Tell me what’s up.’

She sat down at the kitchen table. Her once-dyed-blonde hair was showing nearly two inches of black at the roots and was scraped back from her face. Her pale blue eyes were red with recent
weeping.

‘I can’t take it any more,’ she said. ‘It’s like being in prison. I can’t go out anywhere. No movies, no meals out. Just stuck here, day in, day
out.’

‘Does he beat you?’

‘No, he doesn’t have to. He just threatens to and I do what he wants. Look at my hair,’ she wailed, holding out a strand for Hamish’s inspection. ‘He says if I dye
it again, he’ll kill me.’

‘What about marriage counselling?’

‘Can you see Sean going to a marriage counsellor? We keep ourselves to ourselves, that’s what he says, day in and day out.’

‘Where would you go?’

She nervously twisted her gold wedding ring around her finger. ‘I’ve got a friend in Inverness. I should have married him. I phoned him. He said I could come to him anytime I
wanted.’

‘So why do you need me?’

‘Folks round here say you’re prepared to bend the rules a bit to help people out. I want time to pack up my things and get out.’ She looked anxiously at the clock.
‘We’ve only got about half an hour. I can’t drive. I thought you could lock him up for something and then give me a lift down to the bus in Lochdubh.’

‘I cannae do that,’ exclaimed Hamish, whose accent always became broader when he was upset. ‘You’ll need to talk to one of the women.’

‘I don’t know any of them.’

‘And I cannae interfere in a marriage. Och, I tell you what. Leave it with me. I sometimes see you around the village. How do you get down there?’

‘Sean drives me down. Then he goes off to the pub while I get the shopping.’

‘So next time, just get on the bus.’

‘And leave all my things? I’ve got my mother’s jewellery.’

‘You could put that in your handbag or in the bottom of a shopping bag.’

‘He searches my bags the whole time in case someone’s been slipping me letters. He checks the phone bill. If I’m still here when it next comes in, he’ll ask me what I was
doing phoning the police station. I’ll need to tell him I saw someone suspicious hanging around.’

‘So how did you get in touch with this fellow in Inverness?’

‘Last time I was down in Lochdubh, I phoned from the telephone box on the front as soon as Sean was in the pub. A couple of pounds it took and that was the very last of my own money. He
doesn’t allow me any except for the shopping, and when he gets home, he ticks every item off on the list.’

‘You need some friends here, women friends. Let me try to fix something.’

‘It won’t do any good. He’ll send them off.’

Hamish suddenly grinned. ‘He doesn’t know Mrs Wellington, then.’

Hamish drove back to the police station and put Lugs inside. He was walking up to the manse to see Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife, when Elspeth caught up with
him.

‘It’s about Stoyre,’ she said.

‘Later, Elspeth,’ said Hamish curtly. ‘I’m busy.’

She gave him an odd, disappointed look and turned away.

I shouldn’t have been so rude to her, thought Hamish. But one thing at a time. Stoyre can wait.

He went on to the manse.

Mrs Wellington was a formidable woman dressed as usual, despite the heat, in a tweed jacket, silk blouse and baggy tweed skirt, thick stockings and brogues.

‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said ungraciously.

‘I want to talk to you about a delicate matter,’ said Hamish.

‘In trouble with the ladies again?’ she boomed. ‘Mary Bisset’s mother is going around saying you’re chasing her daughter.’

‘That’s rubbish. Can I come in?’

Hamish followed her into the manse kitchen, a gloomy room which smelled strongly of disinfectant. Manse houses were always dark, he reflected, as if light were considered unholy.

He explained Bella’s problem. Mrs Wellington listened carefully and said, ‘She’s a flighty little thing and he should never have married her, but she does need to get out a bit
and the Mothers’ Union always needs new members.’

‘She doesn’t have children.’

‘Neither do the Currie sisters,’ said Mrs Wellington dryly. ‘But that doesn’t stop them from trying to run everything. Leave it with me, Hamish.’

Hamish walked back down to the
Highland Times
office to look for Elspeth. He found her sitting at her desk, moodily stabbing a pencil into her hair.

‘So what about Stoyre?’ he asked.

‘I took a run over there,’ she said. ‘Nothing. No one in the church.’

‘So that’s all you wanted to tell me?’

‘I think you should go back. There’s an odd feeling about.’

‘What sort of feeling?’

‘Fear.’

‘It’s probably the fear of some Calvinistic God. They seem to have gone all religious.’

‘Could be. But I smell something else.’

Hamish suddenly felt ravenously hungry. He had not eaten any breakfast. To make up to Elspeth for his recent rudeness, he was about to ask her to join him at the Italian restaurant, but she
looked up at him and grinned and said. ‘What’s all this about you romancing Mary Bisset?’

‘There iss nothing in that,’ said Hamish stiffly, and walked out. Irritating lassie.

Hamish went back to the police station and took a trout out of his freezer to defrost. Lugs let out a low grumbling sound. He did not like fish and felt his master was being
selfish, but he brightened when Hamish began to fry up some lamb’s kidneys for him.

Food ready, he loaded it all on to a tray and carried it out to the front garden. He placed Lugs’s bowl on the grass and settled down to enjoy a meal of trout dipped in oatmeal, salad and
chips.

The foxy face of Jimmy Anderson peered over the hedge. ‘That looks good,’ he said. He opened the gate and came in.

‘I hope you’ve eaten,’ said Hamish. ‘I don’t feel like cooking any more.’

‘No, I’m fine.’ Jimmy sank down in a chair next to him. He looked around: at the rambling roses tumbling over the front door and then over the hedge to where the loch sparkled
in the sun. ‘You’ve got the life o’ Riley here, Hamish,’ he said. ‘Enjoy it while you can.’

‘What do you mean?’ demanded Hamish sharply.

‘Well, because of you solving that big insurance case, Daviot’s beginning to make noises about you being wasted up here, and Blair’s encouraging him.’

‘Why? He loathes my guts.’

‘He feels if you were transferred to Strathbane, well, you’d just be another copper and he’d be more on hand to take the credit for anything you found out.’

‘And what brings you up here?’

‘Day off. I came to warn you about what was brewing, and I think you should be offering me something to drink.’

Hamish sighed but went into the house and came back with a bottle half full of whisky and a glass, which he set on the table. ‘Help yourself.’

‘Thanks.’

‘So what do I do to stop getting a promotion?’ asked Hamish.

‘I dunno. Disgrace yourself – mildly.’

‘How do I do that?’

Jimmy took a mouthful of whisky. ‘You’ve always managed before,’ he said.

‘I do not want to go to Strathbane,’ mourned Hamish. He waved his hand round about. ‘Look what I’ve got to lose.’

‘It’s grand today, I’ll give you that. But what about the long winters?’

‘Believe me, long winters in Strathbane would seem worse than they do here.’

‘Have it your way. Once a peasant, always a peasant. Stuck up here talking to the sheep would kill me.’

‘If the bottle doesn’t get to you first.’

‘I can take it. Wait a wee bit: I’ve got an idea.’ Jimmy drank more whisky. ‘There’s a pet o’ Blair’s just joined the force. Red-hot keen. Arrest anyone
on sight. Today, he’s standing out on the main road afore you get to Strath-bane with a speed camera. You could pelt past him at a hundred miles an hour.’

‘In a police vehicle? He wouldnae do a thing. He’d think I was chasing someone.’

‘Get a private car, get drunk enough, and see what happens.’

‘I’d lose my licence!’

‘A policeman! He’d be told to hush it up.’

Hamish snorted in disbelief. ‘By Blair? Come on, Jimmy. Have some sense.’

‘No, by me. He crawls to me because he wants to make CID. I’ll be on hand to tell him to drop it and leak it to Daviot. Daviot hates drunken drivers but I’ll tell him
it’ll be bad for the police image if it ever gets in the papers.’

Hamish looked at Jimmy thoughtfully and then said, ‘I’ll get another glass.’

PC Johnny Peters stifled a yawn. He was bored and tired. Nearly the end of his shift. Like Blair, he was originally from Glasgow and distrusted all Highlanders. He guessed that
in their primitive, almost telepathic way, the news of his speed trap had spread far and wide. Cars had passed him doing a mere thirty miles an hour although it was a sixty-mile-an-hour area.

His radio crackled. ‘Peters here,’ he said.

‘Anderson here,’ came the voice. ‘Just had a report of a stolen car. A white Ford Escort belonging to Mrs Angela Brodie of Lochdubh.’ Peters had just taken down a note of
the registration number when his sharp eyes spotted a small white car on the horizon. He signed off, ran to his car, and swung it across the road.