Hamish Macbeth 12 (1996) - Death of a Macho Man (4 page)

Peaked cap under his arm, he took a deep breath and opened the door of Mr. Daviot’s office.

“Sit down, Macbeth,” said Mr. Daviot without looking up. Mr. Daviot was annoyed. He had been all geared up to firing Hamish and then his wife of all people had phoned in a panic land gabbled something about her social life being ruined if Hamish went. More to the point, she had reminded her husband of all the crimes which Hamish had solved.

At last be looked up. “Do you know why you are here, Macbeth?”

“Yes,” said Hamish bleakly.

“Yes what?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And what have you to say for yourself?”

“It iss not as bad as it looks,” said Hamish. “I wass not going to fight the man. Not at all. I said I would meet him but so that I could give him a very public dressing down and also caution him against harming anyone in Lochdubh.”

“But according to Blair, the whole village had turned out and they were even laying bets on the outcome of the fight.”

“They would hardly have turned out if I had said I was only going to give him a lecture. I wanted as big an audience as possible. You see, sir…” Hamish leaned forward with the intense and honest look his face always assumed when he was lying. “Duggan had been bragging and threatening. Now the one thing a man like that cannot bear is a public telling off. Now, sir, haff you ever known me to fight with anyone?”

Mr. Daviot looked at Hamish thoughtfully while Hamish prayed that Mr. Daviot had never got to hear of any of the times he had been involved in a fight. “No,” he conceded. “But you must see that by ostensibly engaging in a public fight, you have made yourself prime suspect in a murder inquiry.”

“Hardly. I was at the police station right up until the time I was due to meet Duggan. I was in my office with the blinds up and the lights on. I am sure you already have the reports that I was seen there by any villager who happened to be walking past. I mean, just because I am a policeman does not mean that there should not be evidence gathered to support my innocence.”

Mr. Daviot scowled. Blair had submitted no evidence, merely put in a report about the fight. “I don’t think there has been time,” he said. “But bringing a charge against me which would mean my dismissal is so serious that no policeman would do that without the correct evidence—unless, of course, he had a personal spite against me.”

“That’s enough of that,” snapped Mr. Daviot. Blair’s hatred of Hamish was well known. He was now as angry with Blair as he had been with Hamish. He felt that if Blair had wanted to get rid of Hamish, he might at least have tried to do a proper job of it.

“In fact,” said Hamish gently, “I feel so strongly about it, that if I were dismissed, och, well, there’d be nothing for it but I to put in an official complaint. It would mean coping with the press in the middle of a murder inquiry, but I never wass the one to put up with injustice,” he added piously. Mr. Daviot began to sweat Hamish looked calm and determined. He did not know that Hamish privately thought he would never get away with this load of rubbish but was determined to go down in flames.

The superintendent could see the police inquiry into Hamish’s dismissal, the questions the press would ask. And Hamish would drum up about twenty villagers to swear blind that he spoke the truth, that all he had really meant was to lecture Duggan. Then Mrs. Daviot would go on and on, never forgiving him if the visits to Tommel Castle to see Priscilla Halburton-Smythe were cut off.

He took a deep breath. “I will accept your version of events this time, Macbeth. But never, ever let such a thing happen again. Do I make myself clear?”

Hamish felt relief sweeping over him. He could hardly believe he had got away with it. “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.”

“So be off with you. And when you get to Lochdubh, tell Blair to report to me immediately.”

“Certainly, sir.”

“Very good. You’re dismissed.”

Hamish stared at him in alarm.

“I mean, just go and get back to your job!”

Hamish moved hurriedly to the door. Policemen were lurking in the corridors as he made his way out. He quickly assumed a hangdog expression. He suddenly wanted Blair over in Lochdubh to get the news he was fired so that the carpeting he was due to get from Daviot would be even more bitter.

Once clear of Straihbane, he sang cheerfully the whole way home. It was still raining, with wreaths of mist moving up and down the purple heather-covered flanks of the mountains. It was as he was driving the last long winding stretch down towards Lochdubh that he found his mind turning to the case of Duggan’s murder. For he had been murdered. It would be difficult to ascertain the exact time of death. The murderer had been clever enough to turn up the thermostat on the central heating. But they should be able to get a fair idea from the contents of his stomach. Then there was Duggan’s background to be gone into. He found himself praying that it was someone from Duggan’s past, rather than one of the villagers. But tempers bad been frayed in the village because of the constant rain. What about Geordie Mackenzie? Perhaps a little squirt of a man like that could be burning up with rage and resentment…

He found himself hoping against hope that it would not turn out to be one of the villagers.

As he drove along the waterfront, he saw villagers standing around, talking. Up at Duggan’s cottage there were two mobile police vans, and the blue-and-white police tape to cordon off the area fluttered in the rising wind. He unlocked the door of the police station and went in. He felt a little pang that there was no longer the scrabble of paws, no dog any more to welcome him. Towser was dead, buried on the hill above the police station. Hamish was just making himself a cup of coffee when the kitchen door opened and Blair came in, an unlovely smile on his fat face. “When do you begin packing up, laddie?” he jeered.

“Soon, I suppose,” said Hamish. “Och, I nearly forgot. You’re to report to Strathbane right away. Daviot wants a wee word with you.”

“What about?”

Hamish shrugged. “How can I read the minds of the great? But frae the look on his face, I would suggest you get there fast.”

§

Blair drove as quickly as he could towards Strathbane. He sensed he was in trouble but could not think why. It couldn’t be anything to do with Macbeth. The man was at fault and would have to go and he had reported Hamish’s crime like any responsible senior officer should do. Occasionally he craned his head to see his face in the rear-view mirror and practised suitable expressions. Jovial: How’s the lady wife, sir? Serious: I have been dragged off in important case. Puzzled and bewildered: What’s all this, sir? He decided, after having nearly run over a stray sheep that the bewildered look would be best and kept it firmly in place all the way up the stairs to Mr. Daviot’s office.

Peter Daviot was writing busily when Blair entered. Blair stood awkwardly, wishing the super would look op so that he would not lose the appropriate expression. The wind had risen again outside and bowled dismally round the square modem block of concrete that was police headquarters. A seagull perched on the ledge outside and regarded Blair with a cynical eye. Blair coughed and shuffled his feet. He felt himself becoming angry. Bugger all suitable expressions. He pulled forward a chair on the other side of the desk and sat down and folded his thick arms, his heavy features now as sulky as those of a spoilt child.

“Ah, Blair,” said Mr. Daviot at last. “This is a bad business.”

“Duggan’s murder, sir?”

Mr. Daviot threw down his gold-plated pen, a birthday present from his wife. “No, I do not mean Duggan’s murder. I mean Macbeth.”

“It’s straightforward enough, sir. He challenged a member of the public to a fight to which the whole village of Lochdubh turned out to watch, which makes him prime suspect in Duggan’s murder, so he has to go.”

“Yes, I have your report. A few thin paragraphs. Now Macbeth’s story is that he meant to give Duggan a verbal dressing down before the whole village.”

“Havers!”

“Probably. But you have produced no evidence to the contrary. You say Macbeth is a suspect. He says that before the fight was due to take place, he was in the police office, in the station, and in full view of anyone going past. Did you check this?”

“There wisnae any reason to,” howled Blair, exasperated. “Never tell me you’re going to believe that tripe about giving Duggan a talking to.”

“Listen, Blair, and listen well. I dismiss Macbeth and he demands an inquiry. In fact, I cannot dismiss him from the force, as you should well know, without a full inquiry. He will put his version of events and the villagers will be asked for their version. Who do you think they will back? Us or Macbeth? Even a Highland policeman suspended from duty pending a full inquiry gets in the press, and the press will start digging up the cases he has solved. His popularity is very high. Good God, man, do you know what Lord Farthers said about him the other day? I’m speaking about the Earl of Farthers, who is a member of our lodge. He said Macbeth was ‘one of us.’ So not only will we have the press on our backs but one of the most powerful of the Freemasons. Had you put in a proper report, got statements about Macbeth’s intention to fight before the villagers heard that he was to be dismissed, we would have had a fairly easy time getting rid of him. But I don’t know if getting rid of him anyway is such a good idea. He keeps order. He’s lazy and unorthodox, but he gets results. So we’ll just have to swallow this. Get back to Lochdubh. I do not want any clash of personalities. You and your then deal with the murder and confine Macbeth to his usual beat. But I want no more reports about him.”

“What if he murdered Duggan hisself?”

“Don’t be silly. Has the time of death been established?”

“Not yet.”

“Would you say this is a gangland killing? Tying the hands behind the back like that?”

“If it had been done in Glasgow or even here, I might have thought so,” said Blair heavily. “I’m waiting for the results o’ the autopsy. He was a big man, a powerful man. He could ha’ been drugged first and then tied up before being shot.”

“Well, we’re working on Duggan’s background. Maybe we’ll turn up something there. If the man was a known criminal, then it could have been a revenge murder. That will be all, Blair, but in future do not let your obvious dislike of Macbeth get in the way of a police investigation.”

Blair went out, went slowly down the stairs and into the men’s room, where he banged his head against the glass. He wished that someone would murder Hamish Macbeth.

Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts

—
Thomas de Quincey

B
lair was more determined than he had ever been before to keep Hamish Macbeth off the case. But Hamish was part of the village and people gossiped to Hamish, and so villagers who had been interviewed by Blair in the DCTs usual bruising manner retreated afterwards to the comfort of Hamish’s kitchen. The first to call was Archie Maclean.

“It iss the terrible thing, Hamish,” he said crossly, “when the man who does his civic duty and reports the finding off the body should be suspected of murdering him.”

Hamish put a mug of coffee generously laced with whisky in front of the fisherman and sat down beside him at the kitchen table. “There is one thing, Archie,” said Hamish cautiously. “I have heard that you were down at the harbour with Randy the night before the murder and you were heard threatening him.”

“Och, ye’ll no’ be paying attention to a thing like that. He riled me up and it wass just the words. Hot air. Everyone says they’ll kill someone when they’re angry with that someone.”

“But that someone doesn’t usually end up dead!”

“I’m not the only one who threatened the big man.” Archie buried his nose in his mug. “I heard about the fight with Andy MacTavish.” Archie raised his head. He smoothed his sparse grey hairs over his bald patch and twisted his neck in his starched collar. “I wass thinking o’ a certain lady.”

“Come on, man. Out with it. I’ll find out soon enough.”

“I should not be blackening the lady’s name.”

“I’m getting more fascinated by the minute. Why this uncharacteristic gallantry?”

“Whit?”

“I mean it’s not like you to bother protecting a lady’s name.”

“How do ye know that?” demanded Archie wrathfully. “Let’s not quarrel,” said Hamish patiently. “You are a suspect, Archie. A lot of people will be suspects. Honest people have nothing to fear.”

“They’ve got everything to fear when a chiel like Blair is barging around accusing everyone.”

“Come on, Archie. Out with it. Who’s the lady?” Archie drained his mug and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Rosie Draly,” he mumbled. Hamish looked at him in surprise. “The writer!”

“Herself.”

Rosie Draly had recently bought a cottage out on the Crask road. Hamish had made a call on her when she arrived. She had not been particularly welcoming. She said she did not have much time for the police. Her car had been stolen in Glasgow and the police had not only done nothing, they had been rude.

Hamish knew that she wrote historical romances, mostly set in the Regency period. She did not take part in any of the village activities. She travelled to London quite often to see her agent. She was in her forties, small and trim with fair hair and a small, closed face. He had almost forgotten about her.

“I didn’t know she had anything to do with the villagers,” he said. “How did you get to know her?”

“I wass up her way to see Andy, who lives a wee bittie further on. Andy wasnae home and she wass in her garden and I said, “Fine day,” the way you do and she offered me a cup o’ tea. She wanted to know all about the fishing ‘cos she was putting a bit about a fishing boat in one o’ her books. She gave me one called His Lordship’s Passion. I couldnae read it but the wife said it was rare, all about them lords and ladies.”

“So what’s this about Randy?”

“It wass two weeks ago and it wass blowing up something dreadful and we were all stuck in the harbour. I thought I’d take a wee dauner up there I hae a bit o’ a crack. I liked talking tae her. I heard the shouting when I got outside. A window wass open and I could see as plain as day, herself and Randy. She wass crying and shouting, “I’ll kill you, you moron, you bastard.” And Randy, he laughs and says, “Chust you try, you faded auld bitch.” I got myself out o’ the way, me already getting fed up wi’ Randy and his daft stories. But it couldnae hae been her what did the murder.”