Death of a Policeman (3 page)

After fifteen minutes, he was ushered in.

“This is terrible,” said Daviot.

“Mr. Blair did this before. I mean, got someone to report on me.”

“That is being dealt with. This latest thing is worse. We have received a phone call saying that you knew of Sessions's identity and said you would blow his head off.”

“That would be the librarian, Hetty Dunstable,” said Hamish. “She phoned me to say that she thought Sessions was spying on me because he kept asking her questions about me.”

“She said you seemed aware of his identity.”

“Sir, I was mildly irritated, that is all.”

“I am sending men to the station to collect your guns for analysis. I want you to write a full report.”

Hamish lost his temper, his face flaming as red as his hair. “I have worked hard as a police sergeant,” he said. “I have never harmed anyone. If Sessions continued to annoy me, I would simply have sent in a report.”

“Then write your report now,” snapped Daviot. “You are suspended from duties until further enquiries.”

Hamish went downstairs to the detectives' room where Jimmy Anderson was scowling at a computer screen.

“I heard the news,” said Jimmy. “Who is this woman who's making all the trouble?”

“Hetty Dunstable. She's the librarian at Braikie library. She asked me to a party last year and came on to me. Took it bad when I didn't find her in the least attractive. This is spite. I'm suspended from duty. Now I've got to write a report.”

“Go and do it from the police station,” said Jimmy. “You can send it over.”

“What worries me,” said Hamish, “is the spin Blair will put on his behaviour. He'll try to justify the closing down of the police station, saying he was trying to save the force money. The only thing that's saved me so far is that no one else wants to police Sutherland. Has anyone searched Cyril's belongings?”

“Not yet. His only living relative is his mother. She's on her way up from Perth. I was just about to go there.”

“I'd like a look at his stuff.”

“You can't. You're suspended from duty.”

“Just a wee look.”

“Run along. But if anyone reports you, say you did it before you knew you were suspended.”

The day had turned as grey as Hamish's mood. He parked the Land Rover at the police station and then walked along to Mrs. Mackenzie's as a fine drizzling rain began to fall, shrouding the mountains that loomed over the village.

Mrs. Mackenzie let Hamish into the house, demanding to know when she could let the room again.

“Och, you'll need to wait until detectives have looked around as well.”

Grumbling under her breath, Mrs. Mackenzie unlocked the door to Cyril's room.

Hamish walked in and shut the door in her face. He pulled on a pair of latex gloves and went straight to Cyril's backpack, which was lying in a corner.

It was closed with a small padlock. He took out a Swiss knife and, selecting the thinnest blade, sprang the lock. He searched through a jumble of socks, underwear, and sweaters. There seemed to be nothing of interest. No notebook or photographs. He opened the curtained cubicle which served as wardrobe. Two jackets, two pairs of trousers, and an anorak were hanging there. He searched the pockets without finding even a receipt. Two pairs of trainers and a pair of black shoes were lying on the floor. In one of the trainers, he found a slip of paper. A Strathbane phone number was scrawled on it.

There was no sign of a camera or a computer. Hamish pushed back his cap and scratched his fiery hair. There must be something in Cyril's life to have prompted his murder.

He looked down from the window. Jimmy was just climbing out of a car with another detective. Two policemen drew up in a car behind them.

Hamish put the slip of paper in his pocket, left the room, ran along the passage outside, pushed open a fire door at the end, and made his way down to the back garden. He scaled the garden wall and made his way to the police station over the fields at the back.

Dick was standing in the kitchen, mixing something up in a bowl with a wooden spoon while the dog and cat looked up at him hopefully.

“I hear you've been suspended,” said Dick.

“Who told you?”

“Copper friend o' mine.”

“What are you doing?”

“I'm trying my hand at scones,” said Dick. “The Currie sisters gave me their recipe.”

Hamish half closed his eyes. It should be a pretty woman standing there with the mixing bowl. Not some chubby policeman.

“Leave it,” he said. “There's a librarian at Braikie, Hetty Dunstable. She landed me in this mess. She told headquarters I had threatened to shoot Cyril. I think she's got a spite against me because I spurned her advances.”

Dick grinned. “That's an old-fashioned way o' putting it. Did you cast her off like a worn-out glove?”

“Whatever. Look, no one said anything about you being suspended, so get over there and see if you can charm her into repairing the damage.”

“What about my scones?”

Hamish told him crudely where to put his scones, and Dick slammed down the bowl and left in a huff.

When Hamish had finished typing up his report, he took out the slip of paper he had found in Cyril's trainer and looked at it. He should have left it where it was for Jimmy to find, but he was angry at being suspended and wanted to show Strathbane that Hamish Macbeth was too valuable a policeman to be kept off the case.

Then he thought, if the phone number led to anything, he would need to explain where he got it. He could always say he found it outside the police station after Cyril had taken that photograph. But it was raining and the paper was dry. His face cleared. Archie Maclean could always say he found it on his boat and passed it on to Hamish.

He read over his report and began to feel uneasy. What if they checked the police station phone to make sure he had really been called out and had not been luring Cyril to a remote spot to bump him off?

He put a fresh tape in his answering machine. Disguising his voice and speaking in Gaelic, he gave yesterday's date and a time of ten minutes past nine. He would give Jimmy the tape and hope that his phone would not be further investigated.

He then dialled the operator, identified himself, and gave the phone number on the slip of paper, asking for the name and address belonging to the number. The operator said she would call him back for security reasons, to make sure he really was who he said he was.

Hamish waited patiently. When the phone rang, he seized it. “The number is that of an M. Bentley, Number Fifteen, Sheep Street, Strathbane,” she said. Hamish thanked her and then got out a street map of Strathbane. Sheep Street was in the old part of town, a nucleus of little streets off the main shopping area.

He knew he should really pass this information on to Jimmy, but his highland curiosity was demanding that he find out for himself.

He changed out of his uniform into civilian clothes. He called on Archie Maclean, who agreed to say the paper had been found on his boat. Dick had taken the Land Rover, so, telling Sonsie and Lugs to stay behind and behave themselves, he got into Dick's old car and set out for Strathbane.

Dick parked outside the library and went in. A pretty girl was stacking the shelves. Dick approached her. “Miss Dunstable?”

“Not me,” she said. “I'm just the assistant. Hetty's off today. She's awfy upset at her boyfriend being murdered.”

“I'll need to be having a wee word with her,” said Dick. “Give me the lassie's address.”

“She's got a wee bungalow on the shore road. It's called Atlantic View. She got it on the cheap 'cos no one wants to live there.”

“Why not? It used to be flooded but now they've got that new seawall.”

“Aye, but the waves are higher every year and folk say the wall isn't high enough. Last winter, the waves got over it twice.”

“What's your name?” asked Dick.

“Shona Macdonald.”

“Get on all right with Miss Dunstable?”

“Aye. She really loves books. When it's quiet, she reads the whole time.”

“What does she read?” Shona had large blue eyes in a little heart-shaped face.

Wish I wasn't so old, thought Dick ruefully.

“She likes romances, but the old-fashioned kind. Hearts and flowers. No
Fifty Shades of Grey
. She thought that book was disgusting and tried to have it banned. But she couldn't because a lot of people wanted it. When the provost's wife asked for a copy, I thought Hetty was going to burst into tears.”

“I'll be having a word with her,” said Dick. Those eyes of Shona's were so very blue, like Lochdubh on a summer's day.

“Isn't it boring work for a pretty girl like you?” he asked.

“Oh, no,” said Shona. “I read a lot and I like chatting to people. It's not usually so quiet as this.” She glanced at the clock. “I'd better lock up. It's my lunch hour.”

“I'm feeling a wee bit peckish,” said Dick. “Fancy a bite to eat?”

“All right. I usually go to Jean's café next door. She's got good mutton pies and not the shop ones, either.”

“Sounds great,” said Dick. He told himself he was only doing his job. The more he could find out about Hetty before actually meeting her, the better. But when Shona collected her coat and handbag and locked up the library, he noticed the sun had come out and was shining on her glossy black curls, and he felt his fifty-one years melting away and suddenly he was young again.

Sheep Street appeared to be in the throes of gentrification. At the corner, the bakery was selling croissants. Croissants always came just before the builders, reflected Hamish. In fact, people sometimes talked of their area being “croissantified.”

It was a small street with sandstone villas on either side. Builders were working on a few, and others had several doorbells, showing where the villas had been cut into small flats. Hamish was surprised that there was enough money in financially depressed Strathbane to gentrify anything.

He found the address he was looking for. This villa had been recently renovated. There was only one doorbell at the side of a gleaming black-painted door embellished with a large brass lion's-head knocker.

Hamish rang the bell. The door was opened by a tall woman with long straight brown hair, high cheekbones, and eyes as grey as the North Sea.

“Do you know a policeman called Cyril Sessions?” asked Hamish.

“Who are you?”

Her accent was Scottish. Because of her appearance, Hamish had expected her to have an Eastern European accent.

He produced his warrant card, which Daviot had neglected to confiscate. “I am a policeman from Lochdubh,” he said. “I am investigating the murder of Cyril Sessions. He had a note of your phone number.”

“Why aren't you in uniform?”

“Plainclothes,” said Hamish, desperately beginning to wish he had turned his information over to Jimmy. “Who are you?”

“I am Anna Eskdale. I work for Mr. Bentley.”

“May I speak to Mr. Bentley?”

“Wait there. I will see if he is available.”

She shut the door. Hamish waited patiently. A watery sunlight was gilding the cobbles, and the air was full of the noise of builders' radios and grinding machinery.

A seagull landed on the ground at Hamish's feet and surveyed him with prehistoric eyes. “Go away. I havenae anything for you,” said Hamish.

“Do you usually talk to the birds?”

Hamish swung round. Anna had quietly reopened the door. “Mr. Bentley will see you now.”

He followed her down a narrow passage and into a study at the back. A plump middle-aged man sat behind an antique desk. He had thinning hair combed over a pink scalp and small pale blue eyes half buried in creases of fat. The study was lined with books from floor to ceiling.

“I am Murdo Bentley,” he said. “I gather you are the policeman from Lochdubh.”

“Yes, I am investigating Cyril Sessions's murder. He had your phone number in his belongings.”

“I do not read the newspapers,” he said. “Was he a good-looking man?”

“Yes.”

“I think that would be the policeman who called here a few weeks ago. He said that there had been a report that someone in Sheep Street was dealing drugs and asked if I knew anything. I said I travelled a lot and did not know my neighbours, the few that are left.”

“What is your job?” asked Hamish, moving from foot to foot. Murdo was in the only chair.

“I am a restaurateur. I own the Seven Steps outside Strathbane.”

Hamish recalled that the Seven Steps was a very expensive restaurant, popular for weddings and conventions.

He felt uneasy. The study was very quiet. He thought there must be some sort of soundproofing as no noise from outside filtered into the room. Also, in depressed Strathbane, there was a gulf between the haves and have-nots, and the haves were a small group who mostly knew each other. Daviot belonged to the haves.

“If you do hear of anything, let me know,” said Hamish.

The door opened and Anna appeared. Hamish thought that Murdo must have pressed some sort of bell or buzzer on his desk, possibly just under his desk.

“Show the constable out,” said Murdo.

Over lunch, Shona told Dick that she had been at Hetty's party when Hetty had got drunk and had thrown herself at Hamish. “She told us all afterwards that Macbeth had been coming on to her,” said Shona. “None of us believed her.”

“Does she tell lies?” asked Dick.

“Only when it comes to men. She thinks everything in trousers fancies her. When she began to talk about Cyril, well, we all thought she was fantasising until we saw them one evening in the pub and he had his hand on her knee and Hetty looked as if she'd just won the lottery. I still wonder what he saw in her.”

“He was spying on Hamish,” said Dick.

“Why?”

“There's this awful detective inspector in Strathbane who wants proof to close down the police station.”

“Poor Hetty. Look, thanks for lunch. I'd better get back.”

“Maybe we could do this again?”

“That would be nice. Got to rush.”

Dick held open the café door for her. He felt as if his whole body were smiling.

Then he remembered he was supposed to see Hetty.

Atlantic View was a box of a bungalow set on a rise above the shore road. There was no garden, just a fenced-off area of shaggy grass. The tide was up, and great waves were dashing themselves against the seawall. The air was full of the sound of the sea and the screeching of gulls. Dick had read that the gull population was falling fast. He detested the birds. With the depleted fishing stocks, the marauding birds were known to steal food out of the hands of people, trying to eat fish-and-chips or ice cream. Hadn't a small child over at the Kyle of Lochalsh only the other day had an ice cream cone snatched from its fingers?

He rang the bell and waited. Hetty answered the door. She looked at Dick's uniform and put a hand to her thin chest. Her prominent eyes welled up with tears. “Is it about poor Cyril?”

“If I could just be having a word,” said Dick, removing his cap.

“I've seen you on the telly, haven't I?” said Hetty, ushering him into the house. “You've been on quiz shows.”

“Yes, that's me.”

The living room into which she led him seemed to be a sort of shrine to Hetty. Framed photographs of her hung on the walls and stood on nests of little tables. A one-bar electric heater stood in front of the empty fireplace. There was a three-piece suite of white imitation leather standing on a white shag carpet. A low coffee table held a series of celebrity magazines.

Dick was urged to sit down. Hetty perched on the edge of an armchair opposite him.

“I am here to find out why you said that Hamish Macbeth had threatened to shoot Cyril Sessions,” said Dick. “You became suspicious of Cyril when he asked so many questions about Macbeth and told Hamish. He was irritated and made that remark off the top of his head. Why on earth did you tell Strathbane?”

“I thought Hamish had become jealous,” said Hetty.

“Miss Dunstable, I have asked questions about your connection to Hamish. It appears that you got drunk at a party, came on to him, and he rebuffed you. Hamish has now been suspended from duty so I need to gather evidence to clear his name. By the time all my witnesses have made their statements, you will look very bad indeed. How, the authorities will ask you, can Hamish Macbeth have been jealous when he had no romantic feelings towards you at all?”

“But he did threaten to shoot Cyril!”

“Of course, if you were to telephone headquarters and say Hamish was only joking or something like that, I would not need to investigate further.”

She stared at him with a sulky expression. “Hamish led me on.”

“I think your imagination led you on,” said Dick severely. “My God, lassie, if Hamish loses his job and his police station for the likes of you, I'll damn well crucify you and so will every other copper in the Highlands.”

Hetty began to cry until she saw her tears were having no effect on Dick whatsoever.

“Cyril did love me,” she said at last.

“Oh, aye? Then what made you suspicious?”

“At first he swept me off my feet. Then he began to ask question after question about Hamish. I finally said I was sick of the subject and wouldn't talk about Hamish any more. That was when he stopped seeing me or answering my calls.”

“Have you a computer here?” asked Dick.

“Yes, I've got a laptop.”

“Get it in here and write out a statement. You are going to confess that you reported Hamish out of spite.”

“I can't do that!”

“It's either that or I'll make your life a misery. I have friends in the press. Want to see your name in the papers?”

Statement secured, Dick headed straight for police headquarters and demanded to see Daviot.

“Have you an appointment?” asked Helen.

“I have not, but this is of the utmost importance,” said Dick.

Helen disappeared into the inner office. She returned after a few moments and said curtly, “You're to go in.”

“What is it?” demanded Daviot when Dick stood meekly in front of his desk.

“Just this,” said Dick, and handed over Hetty Dunstable's statement.

“This is dreadful,” he said.

“Now, that is why I brought it to you,” said Dick. “You'll be anxious to get some damage limitation.”

“Damage limitation?”

“Wouldn't it be awful, sir, if it got out to the press that Hamish Macbeth was suspended from duty due to the spite of one woman? It would also have to come out that Cyril Sessions lost his life while he was spying on Hamish for Mr. Blair.”

Hamish was on the road back to Lochdubh to confess to Jimmy about that slip of paper when his mobile rang. He pulled into the side of the road to answer it.

It was Daviot. “There has been a grave misunderstanding, Macbeth. You are back on duty. That is all. You are to say nothing of Mr. Blair's connection to Sessions until the matter is cleared up.”

“Yes, sir,” said Hamish. “What…?”

But Daviot had rung off.

Hamish's phone rang again. It was Mr. Patel, Lochdubh's shopkeeper. “Hamish, there are a couple o' scientists from Strathbane University. They've heard you've got a wild cat and since the beasties are that rare, they want to take Sonsie away for DNA tests. We all said it was nothing but a big black cat and they'll be back tomorrow. You'd better dye the cat black. I've got the right hair dye in the shop. It won't hurt the beast.”

Hamish thanked him, but after he had rung off, he cursed the interfering scientists.

When he got to the police station, it was to find that Dick had already collected the dye. “You're going to have to do it yourself, Hamish,” he said. “I doubt if Sonsie would let anyone else near.”

“This is a right mess,” said Hamish. “I should have guessed that something like this would happen sooner or later. Wild cats, they say, are nearly extinct. They'd chust love to get their hands on one. I cannae see poor Sonsie allowing even me to dye her fur. Get her up to the Tommel Castle Hotel tomorrow. Angela Brodie's got a big black cat. I'll borrow that. I'll pay you for the dye.”

“Leave it. I might use it myself,” said Dick. “Grey hair is awfy ageing.”

Hamish eyed him narrowly. “Oh, aye? And who is she?”

Dick blushed. “There's no one. I just thought I'd look better.”

“Suit yourself. So how did you get on with Hetty?”

“I got her to sign a statement saying she had lied to get back at you and I took it to Daviot.”

“Thanks. I owe you a lot.”

The kitchen door opened, and Jimmy walked in. “I got a call that you're no longer suspended,” he said. “Got any whisky?”

Hamish took a bottle and glass down from a cupboard. “I've got a bit of news for you, Jimmy. Have a drink first.”

Jimmy poured himself a hefty measure, took a swallow, and then asked, “What have you been up to?”

Hamish told him about the phone number and his visit to Murdo Bentley. “I tried to phone you,” he lied. “But you must have been in a black area. It didn't seem that important because it was just a wee bit o' paper Archie Maclean found on his boat. It could have come from a tourist.”

“Sheep Street,” said Jimmy. “I'll check up. I cannae remember anything to do wi' drugs in Sheep Street. I'll look into that.”

“Do you think some drug gang might have decided to murder Cyril?”

“I cannae remember Cyril being involved in any drugs case, unless it was when I was on holiday. I'll let you know. I'll go and see this Murdo Bentley myself. I've heard o' him. Owns the Seven Steps restaurant. Some soap star had her wedding there last year. Does good works. Set up a boys' club down at the docks. Gives a lot to charity.”

“Is he married?”

“Cannae recall.”

“He's got some sort of assistant, Anna Eskdale. Ring any bells?”

“No. Look, Hamish, the man's a pillar of the community.”

“Still, it's odd that…” Hamish broke off. He had been about to say that it was odd Cyril had kept that phone number hidden in one of his trainers. “I mean, why did Cyril have a note of that one phone number?”

“You say Archie found it on his boat. It may not have come from Cyril. Could have been dropped by a tourist. Anyway, thanks for the dram. We've asked around the village here. No one saw anyone following Cyril when he left for Sandybeach.”

After Jimmy had left, Hamish walked along to Angela Brodie's cottage. The doctor's wife was, as usual, scowling at her laptop on the kitchen table. “Looking for inspiration?” asked Hamish.

“I'm looking up frock shops.”

“Why?”

“My last book was a detective story. Didn't I give you a copy?”

“No. What's it called?”

“
A Very Highland Murder
. Got good reviews and I've been nominated for an award. My agent says it's full evening dress. It's going to be televised. The event is sponsored by Bramley Sofas. There are to be awards for different categories of fiction. It's for new writers.”