Death of a Policeman (12 page)

“If you ever feel like inviting us to dinner again,” he said, “make sure she doesn't know about it.”

Monday evening arrived and with it a nervous Angela Brodie escorted by her husband to watch her TV appearance.

Dick settled them in the living room with drinks and snacks. “Here comes your big moment, Angela,” he said, switching on the television.

After a long noisy advertisement for sofas on sale—“are sofas never
not
on sale,” muttered Hamish—film of guests arriving at the banquet appeared. No Angela. Then green room interviews with the winners, but the interview with Angela appeared to have been cut. More sofa advertisements, followed by a long introductory speech by the head of the sofa company. The camera panned occasionally round the guests but Angela was always out of range. She leaned forward in her chair. Surely, they would feature Hamish's impromptu presentation. But nothing. Absolutely nothing.

“Bastards!” said Dick.

“Never mind, Angela,” said Hamish. “You're a real writer, unlike the award winners.”

“It'll teach me never to waste money again,” said Angela. “I feel like an absolute fool.”

“Come on home, dear,” said Dr. Brodie. He gave her a hug.

After they had left, Hamish began to sort out his burglary tools. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” asked Dick nervously. He was worried that if Hamish was caught, Strathbane would have a good reason to shut down the police station. “I'll come with you,” he said suddenly. “You'll need someone to stand guard.”

“I don't want you to risk getting caught as well,” said Hamish. “Who'd look after Sonsie and Lugs if we both end up in prison?”

“If there's any risk o' that, I'll clear off and leave you to it.”

“All right. Just make sure you do.”

They set out at two in the morning. Hamish was glad that there was a thick covering of cloud over the moon. They drove in Dick's little car and parked it up a grassy track some way away from the restaurant. Both were wearing black clothes.

They made their way silently to the restaurant over the fields at the back. “Keep away from any CCTV cameras,” whispered Hamish. “At the first sign of trouble, get yourself as far away as possible.”

Dick crouched down behind a clump of bushes near the sheds. “If I hear or see someone coming, I'll give an owl hoot,” he said.

Hamish went off at a run. When he reached the back door of the restaurant, he flicked on a pencil torch and scanned the outside of the building. He cursed when he saw a yellow burglar alarm box high up on the wall. He climbed up a drainpipe and cut the wires, praying that the device was as old as it looked and not liable to go off the moment it was tampered with.

He climbed down again and then spent twenty minutes picking the door lock. He moved silently into the corridor, shutting the door behind him. He found the door to that office and worked on the lock there until the door sprang open.

Hamish went immediately to the desk. He searched the drawers in the hope that the code to the safe was somewhere. There was a thick black appointments book in the centre drawer. He opened it and searched through it, his torch flickering over the pages. He was about to put it back when he saw several of what appeared to be phone numbers on the inside back page. Hamish remembered that people often disguised their PINs or safe numbers by putting an area code in the front.

There was one that interested him. It read 0151-78006923.

He quickly memorised the number without the area code, then stood up and turned to the safe. He put in the code and could hardly believe his luck when the steel door opened.

Resisting the temptation to search the ledgers, he concentrated on looking for photographs. He was about to give up but then wondered if they might be in one of the ledgers. He took them out, one by one, and began his search. In the fourth ledger, he found a packet of photographs and computer disks. He flicked his torch over them. He established that they were the compromising photographs of Mrs. Daviot. He hurriedly put the photos in his pocket, returned the ledgers, and was about to make his escape when he decided he had better search the computer in case they were stored there as well.

The computer, a laptop, was password-protected. There was a large old railway clock on the wall behind Hamish, sonorously ticking the precious seconds away while he looked feverishly in the book again to see if a password had been noted.

His eye fell on ViOdeR8, scrawled in tiny print in the very corner. He typed it in and the computer opened up. He would have loved to take time to search through it, but all he wanted were the photographs. He found them and winced at the images of Mrs. Daviot in the arms of Paolo Gonzales. Hamish quickly deleted them. He then went to Google and put in a request—how to disable a computer? He followed the instructions with a feeling of malicious satisfaction. His task completed, he was just switching off the machine when he heard the sound of a vehicle arriving at the front of the restaurant. He double-checked the photos and disks in his pocket, pulled a black balaclava over his face, and ran out of the back door just as a Land Rover with a light on the roof came round the building.

Hamish fled. He was a champion hill runner but he knew where he would have to go to shake them off. He headed straight for Crimmond's Bog, a marshy area near the back of the restaurant. As he gained the edge of the bog, a bullet whistled past his ear. He prayed he could remember the one safe track through the bog.

He heard yells behind him and glanced round. The Land Rover had hit the bog and was sinking fast. Hamish gained the other side of the bog, running as fast as a deer, circling round until he reached the main road. He hoped Dick had had the sense to get clear. But just as he reached the road, the moon shone down and Dick's little car came slowly along.

Hamish flagged him down and hurtled into the passenger seat. “Fast as you can,” he said. He lay back in the seat, his heart thudding like a piston.

Back at the station, Dick looked at the photographs and blushed to the roots of his hair. “Who'd ha' thought it?” he exclaimed. “I wonder where Gonzales is now?”

“He's probably in that convenient bog,” said Hamish. “Even if whoever was chasing me knew about it, they would have forgotten in their desperation to get me.”

“I found this,” said Dick, holding out a crumpled bit of paper. “It was caught in the bushes. It's an address.”

Hamish smoothed it out and read “Olga Sobinski, 4, Murray Way, Strathbane.”

“We'll call there and see what goes on,” he said. “But we'd better get Jimmy over here and discuss how we're going to confront Daviot. Let's look at the CDs and make sure Mrs. Daviot's the only one on them.” This turned out to be the case.

“A woman wi' a big arse like that shouldnae wear a thong,” said Dick dolefully.

Jimmy arrived in response to Hamish's urgent summons the following morning.

“Any report of a break-in at the restaurant last night?” asked Hamish.

“Not that I've heard. Was that you?”

“Aye and they damn near tried to kill me,” said Hamish. “I've got the photos.”

“Give me a strong coffee and let me see them.”

As Dick prepared the coffee, Hamish put the photographs down on the kitchen table.

“Oh, michty me,” wailed Jimmy. “What do we do now? We don't want the man to lose his job.”

“We'll need to let him know that he doesn't have anything more to fear from Murdo. Then we get a search warrant and take that damn restaurant apart. Now, Dick found a crumpled piece of paper with an address in Strathbane. I'd like to call there first.”

“Why?”

“When we were searching in the sheds, I found a piece of red ribbon.”

“So what?”

“Just a hunch that they might be trafficking women as well as drugs.”

“Do you need me?” asked Dick plaintively.

“Yes, I need you and the dog and cat,” said Hamish. “The bastard might come over here. They'll suspect it was me. Let's go.”

They parked outside a tall villa on Murray Way. “If it's part o' Murdo's organisation,” said Hamish, “they might recognise me. You go, Jimmy. Ask for Olga and take it from there.”

Jimmy groaned. “I could do wi' a dram to take the edge off.”

“You don't need the edge off,” said Hamish. “Get on with you!”

“I sometimes think you don't realise you're speaking to your superior officer,” grumbled Jimmy.

“Oh, hurry up,
sir
,” said Hamish.

Jimmy went up and rang the bell. The door opened and a tall Slavic-looking woman smiled at him. “Come in,” she said.

Thanking his stars that no one ever took him for a member of the police force, Jimmy went into a reception area where several girls in various stages of undress were sitting about.

“So, what is your pleasure, sir?”

Jimmy contrived to look like a businessman who had suddenly got cold feet. “Can I come back later?” he said, and fled out the door.

He got in the car. “It's a brothel. It's Blair's day off. I'll get it raided right now.”

“And get a watch on Murdo's house and restaurant,” said Hamish. “Put up roadblocks and get a watch on the airports, and trains.”

“Don't give me orders,” snapped Jimmy.

They waited anxiously until the police arrived in force. “Right, here we go,” said Hamish.

The raid was successful. Twelve Eastern European women were hustled out into police vans along with the tall woman who turned out to be Olga.

The premises were being searched when Police Inspector Harold Simms hurried up to Jimmy. “Mr. Daviot on the phone,” he said. “You're to call off the search.”

“Carry on,” said Jimmy grimly. “I'm going to see him.”

Leaving Dick behind, Jimmy and Hamish drove to police headquarters and went straight up to Daviot's office. Ignoring Helen's squawk of, “You can't go in there!” they thrust her aside and walked into Daviot's office. The superintendent's face was paper white.

“I've told Simms to call off the search,” he shouted, leaping to his feet.

Hamish took out the packet of photographs, opened it, and spread the photos on the desk.

Daviot glanced at them and buried his head in his hands. “Helen may be listening,” said Hamish in a low voice. “Send her away.”

“What shall I say?” asked Daviot.

Hamish went and opened the door. “Helen, Mr. Daviot says you're to go to the florist's immediately and send a dozen red roses to his wife.”

He stood there until Helen put on her coat, picked up her handbag, and left.

“Now we can talk,” said Hamish, going back into the superintendent's office. “You have nothing to fear from Murdo Bentley now, sir. We've put out an all-points alert to pick him up. His restaurant and office are being raided.”

“I must resign,” said Daviot wretchedly.

“Now, there's no reason for that,” said Jimmy soothingly. “Nobody knows about thae photos.”

“What if that man Gonzales appears?” asked Daviot.

“As to that,” said Hamish, “in the next few days we'll get that bog near the restaurant drained. But take it from me, that creature is dead.”

“How could my wife behave like a slut?” asked Daviot.

“Easy,” said Hamish. “They probably slipped her a drug.”

“She keeps saying she can't remember anything about it.”

“Mrs. Daviot's probably telling the truth,” said Jimmy. “They probably slipped her a date-rape drug, dressed her up like a tart, and got Gonzales to do his bit. My guess is that Gonzales tried to blackmail Murdo.”

Daviot's phone rang. “I'll get that,” said Jimmy. He listened and then his face darkened. “Keep a watch on all the airports and roads,” he ordered.

He put the phone down and turned to Daviot. “They can't find Murdo. They got a haul o' drugs from his restaurant, and one of the girls from the brothel who speaks English said they were all from the Ukraine. They were promised jobs in the restaurant and when they arrived, their passports were taken away and they were forced into prostitution. I've got to go, sir, and join the search. Burn those photos, be nice to the missus, and neither Hamish nor I will say a word.”

“I don't know how I can ever thank you,” said Daviot. “How did you get these photos back?”

“Best not to ask,” said Hamish. “We'd better go and join in the hunt.”

All that long day, the search went on. All Murdo's staff, with the exception of Anna Eskdale, who had disappeared along with Murdo, had been rounded up.

A weary Hamish returned late to his police station and told Dick about the developments.

“I've got some nice venison stew for you,” said Dick. “I wonder where the bastard has got to?”

“And I wonder who tipped him off,” said Hamish grimly. “Jimmy found out that when they got to his office, the safe was lying open, and so was a back door to the place. He can't use his credit cards but it's my bet he had money in that safe.”

He sat down at the kitchen table. Dick put a plate of stew in front of him. Hamish raised a forkful to his mouth and then froze. “The docks!” he exclaimed. “I wonder if Jimmy thought of the docks. There are a lot of villains down there. Murdo could have paid someone to take him off by boat.”

Hamish dashed off to the office. Dick put his dinner in the microwave, ready to reheat the food.

He finally came back and slumped down at the table. “Jimmy remembered the docks but maybe too late. Murdo kept a converted fishing boat down there and it's gone. The coastguard has been alerted.”

Dick heated Hamish's dinner and put it back on the table. “I wonder how far he got,” said Hamish.

Murdo was heading across the Minch, the strait that divides the mainland from the outer isles. His plan was to hide out on one of the remote islands until he guessed the search would not be so intense. Anna Eskdale stood behind him in the wheelhouse, staring gloomily out at the heaving black waves. They were in the middle of the Minch when the engine suddenly coughed and died. Murdo cursed. He normally never skippered the boat himself, and he had assumed that the villain he usually employed had put enough petrol in it.

“We can't bucket about here waiting for the coastguard to pick us up,” said Anna. “We'd better take to the dinghy.”

They lowered the dinghy into the water. Anna took over and started the outboard and they went off, crashing through the waves.

It was a perfect morning on the island of Eriskay when widow Martha Hibbert went out to feed her chickens. She was a tall, bony woman who gained a very small income writing steamy romances. Martha had moved from London after the death of her husband ten years ago to enjoy the solitude of the Outer Hebrides. She was just about to turn away to go back into her low white croft house when she saw a man and a woman approaching across the heather in the pale grey light of dawn. The sun did not rise until around ten in the morning. So far north in the British Isles means little daylight in the autumn and winter months. The man was carrying a small travel bag.

Murdo and Anna were both soaked to the skin. Murdo's plan was to take over some household at gunpoint until they dried out and worked out what to do.

But Martha approached them with a welcoming smile. “Did you fall in the water?” she asked. “Come in and dry yourselves and I'll make some tea.”

Murdo decided to leave his gun in his pocket.

“That's kind of you,” he said. “We had a bit of an accident on the boat.”

Martha ushered them into the parlour and built up the fire. “I'll just get you some dry clothes,” she said. “Your wife can have some of mine and I've still got some of my late husband's clothes.”

Martha, before she went to look out clothes for them, went into the kitchen where she had a small television set. She had recognised the pair. She put the television in the bottom of a cupboard.

When she returned with the clothes and towels, they were huddled over the fire. “I'll leave you to get dressed,” she said. “Then I'll hang your clothes out to dry. It's going to be a grand day.”

“Have you a television set here?” asked Anna.

“No, I don't watch the telly and I don't read newspapers. I came up here to get away from the world.”

Anna and Murdo stripped and changed, Anna into a shirt and a pair of corduroy trousers and Murdo into a sweater and overalls.

“Harmless biddy,” said Murdo. “Let's go along with it for a bit.”

Martha returned and gathered up their wet clothes. “Come through to the kitchen,” she said, “and I'll make you some breakfast. But first, have a cup of tea.”

Murdo and Anna were both exhausted. They gratefully accepted their mugs of strong tea.

Suddenly they felt themselves losing consciousness. Murdo tried to struggle up but then fell across the table while Anna slumped to the floor.

Martha quickly opened the travel bag. She spread the contents out on the kitchen counter. There were wads of fifty-pound banknotes and various passports in various names. She then searched Murdo until she found the gun. After that, she searched Anna and found another gun. Martha returned everything along with one gun back into the bag and locked it all up in a small safe in her bedroom. She studied Murdo's gun. It was a Smith & Wesson. Her late sister had lived in Texas, and when Martha had visited, her sister had taken her to a gun range and shown her how to load and use a Smith & Wesson.

She picked up the telephone to contact the police and then replaced the receiver.

Times had been hard for Martha recently, and her publisher had just refused to renew her contract. That money would come in handy. It had been a long time since she could afford a trip to the mainland to buy new clothes.

She had hoped the solitude of the island would inspire her but somehow the writing seemed harder than ever. The simple life, she had discovered, was all right for townies with money, playing at being sort of Marie Antoinettes.

The weather was quiet that day, but usually Martha lived in a cacophony of noise from waves and wind. She had begun to talk to herself, even when she went to the shop, and the locals had begun to avoid her.

That money could also maybe get her as far as London to see her useless agent. Martha began to giggle. She could even take the gun with her and see his frightened face.

But what to do with this precious pair in the meantime?

She went out to the shed and came back with a wheelbarrow and a length of rope and duct tape. First she tied up Murdo and taped his mouth before sliding him onto the wheelbarrow and taking him out to the shed, where she tipped him onto the floor. She returned and completed the same process with Anna. Then she securely padlocked the shed.

Martha wondered whether to call on the island's doctor for a new supply of sleeping pills, having used up what she had drugging the pair. Then she realised happily that she could now afford whisky, and whisky was better than sleeping pills any day.

But how had they arrived? She walked down to the beach and saw the dinghy. She went back and got a hammer and smashed holes in the bottom, then waded into the water, pushed it out to sea, and waited until it sank.

Singing to herself, she returned to her croft house. But what about her six hens? She could get a neighbour to look after them, but what if that precious pair woke up and started banging about the shed?

Sadly, she caught each hen and wrung its neck and put the dead birds in the freezer.

Dressed carefully in her best clothes, and carrying Murdo's travel bag, Martha got into her old Ford and drove across the causeway to Barra to wait for the ferry to the mainland.

A couple of weeks later, Jimmy, Hamish, Dick, and Blair along with a forensic team and several police officers gathered at the harbour in Lochdubh as Archie Maclean's fishing boat appeared, towing Murdo's boat behind him.

They waited impatiently while the forensic team boarded Murdo's boat. “She wass chust bobbing about on the Minch,” said Archie. “But the dinghy's missing.”

It soon transpired that the boat had run out of petrol. “They could be anywhere,” grumbled Blair. “I'll phone the coastguard.”

Hamish took Archie aside. “If you landed in the middle o' the Minch in a dinghy, where would you head?”

“Well…” Archie pushed back his cap and scratched his grey hair. “She was in the Little Minch so maybe Barra.”