Death of a Prankster (15 page)

Jeffrey sighed. ‘He’ll get over it quicker than we will, Angela. He never knew Betty as his mother. I think with our money, he’ll lead the dilettante life he’s always wanted, never work again, and be perfectly happy.’

‘Must you drive so fast?’ shouted Melissa. Charles slowed the car to a halt and then switched off the engine. He had stopped on a rise and below them stretched acres of windswept moorland and tall pillared mountains. Clouds rushed overhead and the wind sang mournfully through the heather. ‘The land that God forgot,’ said Charles.

‘What will you do?’ asked Melissa.

‘Oh, I’ll travel the way I’ve always wanted to travel,’ said Charles. ‘The best cure I can think of is to get right out of Britain. I’ll go to New York, stay at the Plaza, and then, after a few weeks, I’ll buy a car and drive right across America.’

‘Won’t you want to see your mother?’

‘No point,’ he said. He handed her a handkerchief. ‘Here. Scrub your face. You look like a clown. All your make-up’s run.’

‘It’s not my fault,’ said Melissa, rubbing her face and looking ruefully at the mess on the handkerchief. ‘I got such a fright when I heard she’d tried to murder me that I couldn’t stop crying.’

‘Well, by all that’s holy.’ Charles fished a flask out of the glove compartment. He unscrewed the top. ‘Brandy.’ He drank some and passed the flask to Melissa, who took a great gulp. ‘Easy now,’ he admonished. ‘Fair shares.

‘You didn’t see my mother before she was taken out,’ he went on. ‘Her eyes were completely blank. She didn’t even know who I was. She’ll never go to trial. God, all those years and I didn’t know. I remember now when I was small, she once took me on her lap and she was kissing and hugging me and old Andrew walked in. I can’t call him Father. I never really could. He walked in and said in a nasty voice, “Don’t ever let me catch you doing that again.” Horrible man.’

They finished the brandy. Charles stretched a lazy arm around Melissa’s shoulders. ‘D’you know what I feel like doing now? Making love.’

‘To me?’ Melissa looked at him tipsily.

‘Who else?’ He gathered her close and kissed her. His kiss was soothing, warm and friendly. One kiss led to another, and another somehow led to both of them in the back seat making cramped but energetic love.

Melissa didn’t feel ashamed or used. She would never see him again. They would go their separate ways.

‘What are you going to do now?’ he asked lazily. ‘Are you a dedicated scientist?’

‘I thought I was,’ said Melissa. ‘I’ll know when I get back. But Paul will be there. I’d better find another job.’

He ruffled her short hair. ‘Come with me to the States.’

‘What! Just like that?’

‘Why not? Have you got family?’

‘Yes, my mum and dad. I don’t live with them. I’ve got my own flat.’

‘OK, we’ll drop in on Mum and Dad and then we’ll be off.’

Melissa began to laugh. ‘Silly, you haven’t any money yet.’

‘But I will have, the minute Jeffrey and Angela phone the lawyers. I’ll ask the lawyers for a great whacking advance. Think of it. Oodles of money and nothing else to do but have fun. I say, we can clear off today. I can’t stand another night at Arrat House.’

‘But Paul will be furious.’

‘You don’t need to see him or anyone. I’ll say goodbye to Jeffrey and Angela and tell them to keep quiet about it. We won’t even pack. We’ll just go off as if we’re going into the village for a stroll and then call a cab.’

Melissa twisted her head and looked up at him, at his handsome face. She couldn’t leave with him. She didn’t know him. Mind you, her working-class background wouldn’t bother Charles. She instinctively knew he wouldn’t particularly notice it. But she couldn’t really …

‘Let’s get to know each other better,’ said Melissa firmly. ‘Then I’ll know it’s you I want and not your money!’

Hamish Macbeth was sitting in the village café with Priscilla. He had previously arranged to meet her there. He told her all about the confrontation and Betty’s confession, ending with, ‘I’ll neffer do that again.’

‘What?’ asked Priscilla, guessing by the sudden sibilancy of his Highland accent that he was really upset.

‘I will neffer again try tae frighten a confession out o’ someone. Next time I will hae the proof, rock-solid proof. If Melissa hadnae appeared at the window complete wi’ punk make-up, I might still ha’ been waiting for a confession, and that scunner Blair laughing at me. And do you know what Blair has done?’

‘I should guess, as you told me Daviot wasn’t there, that he is going to take all the credit,’ said Priscilla. ‘So what’s new? You usually let him.’

‘Aye, but this time I wass going to bargain. I wass going to haff the central heating put in at the police station.’

‘Maybe that will teach you to be a little more ambitious in future, Hamish Macbeth.’

‘Oh, aye?’ said Hamish. ‘And end up in Strathbane? You wouldnae see me. Would you miss me, Priscilla?’

‘Of course I would. But I would be happy to see you getting on. How is Charles Trent taking it? He must be devastated.’

‘I think he’ll get over it quick. He’s getting money from Jeffrey and Angela. The man’s a born hedonist.’

‘You underrate him,’ said Priscilla, ‘just because he’s handsome.’

‘Regretting you didn’t go for dinner with him?’

‘Madly,’ said Priscilla crossly. ‘I’d better get back to Lochdubh. What about you?’

‘I’ll call at Arrat House and pick up the Land Rover and follow you.’

They emerged from the café together and then stood staring down the street. Charles and Melissa were emerging from the pub. A taxi was waiting for them. They were very tipsy and laughing and giggling. Charles kissed Melissa full on the mouth and then they both got into the taxi.

‘Shattered, isn’t he?’ said Hamish.

‘How could it all happen just like that?’ marvelled Priscilla.

‘Isn’t that the way it’s supposed to happen?’ asked Hamish.

She avoided his eyes. ‘My car’s here. I’ll run you to Arrat House.’

Priscilla waited outside while Hamish went in to say goodbye. He emerged after ten minutes, followed by Enrico. The Spaniard said something to Hamish and handed him a small parcel.

Then Hamish came up to Priscilla’s car. ‘What was that?’ she asked.

‘A wee present,’ said Hamish with a grin. ‘Lead the way home, Priscilla, and I’ll give you a police escort.’

That evening at police headquarters in Strath-bane, Jimmy Anderson held the phone out to Blair. ‘It’s Hamish Macbeth,’ he said.

Blair laughed. ‘Whit does our local yokel want now?’ he asked. He took the phone.

‘Whit dae ye want, laddie?’

‘Central heating,’ said Hamish.

‘Och, away and bile yer heid, ye daft pillock.’

‘Pity if you refuse to help.’ Hamish’s voice sounded amused. ‘By the way, I got a farewell present from Enrico at Arrat House. That tape.’

‘Wipe it out, man,’ howled Blair.

‘Aye, that I will. After.’

‘After whit?’

‘After I get the central heating,’ said Hamish gently and replaced the receiver.

If you enjoyed
Death of a Prankster
, read on for the first chapter of the next book in the
Hamish Macbeth
series …

It was a blue day in the West Highlands of Scotland as PC Hamish Macbeth strolled along the waterfront of the village of Lochdubh. Not blue meaning sad, but blue coloured by a perfect day, blue coloured by the sky arching above and the sea loch below. Mountains rearing up were darker blue, marching off into a blue infinity of distance, as if Sutherland in the north of Scotland had no boundaries, but was some sort of infinite paradise of clean air and sunlight.

It had been a bad winter and a damp spring, but summer, which usually only lasts six weeks at the best of times in the far north, had finally arrived in all its glory, strange to the inhabitants who were used to rain and damp and high winds.

Little silken waves curled on the shore. Everything swam lazily in the clear light. Never had the roses in the little village gardens been more profuse or more glorious. Dougie, the gamekeeper on Colonel Halburton-Smythe’s estate, told everyone who would listen that unusual blossoming meant a hard winter to come, but few wanted to believe him. It was as if the whole of Lochdubh was frozen in a time capsule, with one perfect day following another. Life, never very energetic, slowed down to a crawl. Old quarrels and animosities were forgotten.

All this suited Hamish Macbeth’s easygoing character. There had been no crime at all for some time; his superior and frequent pain in the neck, Detective Chief Inspector Blair of Strathbane, was on holiday somewhere in Spain. Hamish planned to walk along to the harbour for a chat with any fisherman who happened to be mending nets, and then perhaps he would go up to the Tommel Castle Hotel for a coffee with Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, once the love of his life if she only but knew it.

Fisherman Archie Maclean was sitting on the edge of the harbour wall, staring out at the loch where the boats rocked gently at anchor.

‘Aye, it’s a grand day, Hamish,’ he said as the policeman came up.

‘Not verra good for the fish,’ rejoined Hamish amiably.

‘The fish is chust fine. Fair jumping into the nets, Hamish. Got a cigarette on you?’

‘You forget, I gave up a whiles back,’ said Hamish regretfully. Would he ever get over that occasional longing for a cigarette? It would be great to light one up and puff away contentedly.

‘Ah, well, I’ll chust go along to Patel’s and get some.’ Archie prised himself off the harbour wall. Both men walked in the direction of the village general store.

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was just coming out of the store with a bag of groceries in her arms. ‘I’ll take these, Priscilla,’ said Hamish. ‘Where are you parked?’

‘Round the side of the shop, Hamish. Morning, Archie.’

‘Why are you doing the shopping?’ asked Hamish curiously.

‘Wanted an excuse to get away,’ said Priscilla, unlocking the car.

Priscilla’s father, Colonel Halburton-Smythe, had turned his home into an hotel after losing his money. The hotel was thriving. Mr Johnson, former manager of the Lochdubh Hotel, now closed, was running the business, and so Priscilla was usually carefree. But Hamish noticed she was looking rather strained.

‘What’s up?’ he asked.

‘Come back with me and we’ll have something to drink and I’ll tell you.’

Hamish got in the car. He glanced at her sideways, reflecting that she looked more beautiful than ever. Her golden hair shone with health and her skin was lightly tanned. She was wearing a sky-blue cotton dress with a broad white leather belt at the waist and her bare tanned legs ended in low-heeled brown leather sandals. Some of the old desire tugged at his heart, but she was so cool and competent, so expert a driver, so seemingly oblivious of him as a man, that it quickly died. He felt illogically that she would be quite devastating if she did something wrong for once, crashed the gears, dropped something, had a hair out of place, wore the wrong shade of lipstick, or was guilty of any simple little human lapse at all.

The fake baronial pile that was Tommel Castle Hotel soon loomed up. She told Hamish to leave the groceries at the reception desk and then led the way through to the bar, formerly the morning room. ‘Want a whisky, Hamish, or will we have coffee?’

‘Coffee’s just fine.’ She poured two mugs of coffee and they sat down at one of the tables.

‘So what’s been happening?’ asked Hamish.

‘Well, everything was running smoothly. The new gift shop that I am going to run is nearly finished and I’ve been off on my travels accumulating stuff to display in it. We were expecting eight members of a fishing club. But they cancelled at the last minute. Their chairman was trying to land a salmon somewhere down south and the fish turned out to be more powerful than he and dragged him in and down the rocks and over the rapids. He’s recovering in hospital. He was an old friend of Daddy’s and it turned out that Daddy hadn’t even charged any booking-fees. So we had another booking which Daddy wanted to turn down flat. It’s from the Checkmate Singles Club. Daddy has gleaned a lot of knowledge of singles’ bars from American films, and so the very word “singles” started him foaming at the mouth. Mr Johnson said, quite rightly, that we should take their booking to make up for the lost fishing party, but Daddy wouldn’t be moved, so Mr Johnson called me in to talk sense into his head.

‘This Checkmate Singles Club is actually one of the most expensive dating and marital agencies in Britain. I told Daddy they must have half the titles in the country on their books, which is a wild exaggeration, but the old snob fell for it,’ remarked Priscilla, who often found her father a trial. ‘It’s actually mostly a marriage agency. The thing that clinched it was the woman who runs it, Maria Worth, dropped in on us to check the place out and she was so impeccably tweedy and blue-blooded – she even has a tweedy mind – that Daddy caved in and smarmed all over her. So everything’s settled, but I felt so limp after all the arguments and stupidity, I felt I had to get away just for a little and volunteered to do the shopping.’

‘You mean this Maria Worth is something like a marriage-broker?’

‘Sort of. She charges enormous fees. She’s bringing eight of her clients up to get acquainted.’

‘Dear me,’ said Hamish, scratching his fiery-red hair in puzzlement, ‘they must be a sad bunch of folk if they have to pay some woman to find them a mate.’

‘Not necessarily. Usually they’re people who want someone with money to match their own fortunes or middle-aged people who don’t want to go through the indignities of dating a stranger. It’s very hard dating in this day and age, Hamish,’ said Priscilla seriously. ‘I mean, isn’t it better to have an agency check the other person out first? Find out all about them? I might try it myself.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ said Hamish crossly. ‘We both know almost everyone in the whole of damn’ Sutherland and what we don’t know we can soon find out.’

‘Who says I want to marry someone from bloody Sutherland?’ Priscilla glared at him.

Hamish suddenly grinned, his hazel eyes dancing. ‘So you’re human after all.’

‘Of course I’m human, you great Highland drip.’

‘It is just that you always seem so cool about everything, like a nice chilled salad.’

‘I don’t like scenes and confrontations, that’s all. If you had a father like mine, you would shy away from dramatics as well.’

‘Why doesn’t the wee man just jack this hotel business in?’ said Hamish, not for the first time. ‘He’s making a mint. He can go back to being lord of the manor and take down the hotel sign.’

‘He loves it. Some of his old army friends book in here and he tells them long stories about how he had nearly shot himself when he lost his money and how courageously he had fought back single-handed, just as if Mummy and I hadn’t done all the work, not to mention Mr Johnson. It’s the new legend. “The Plucky Colonel”. Still, I’m being catty. He’s happy. His rages don’t mean anything. They never last for long, and then he can’t even remember what all the fuss was about. Anyway, you’re having a lovely life. No murders.’

‘Thank goodness for that,’ said Hamish. ‘And not a cloud in the sky.’

But the clouds that were about to darken his tranquil sky in the shape of the members of the Checkmate Singles Club were soon approaching Sutherland.

On her way north a week later was the organizer, Maria Worth. She was a stocky, cheerful woman who had made a success out of the business. She never had large gettogethers for her clients. She always assembled them in small groups and in some romantic setting, but usually in or near London. She had heard from friends about the Tommel Castle Hotel and decided it would be a perfect setting for the most difficult of her clients. She would not have thought of such an adventurous scheme had Peta been around. Peta Gore was the bane of Maria’s otherwise successful life. Peta had put up half the money to launch Checkmate, becoming a partner. When the business flourished, Maria had tried to buy her out, but Peta refused. For Peta was a widow on the look-out for a husband and she hoped to pick up one at one of Maria’s get-togethers. She never troubled her head with any of the nitty-gritty of office work or with interviewing or researching clients. But she had a nasty habit of turning up, uninvited, and throwing the carefully chosen guest-list out of sync.

Maria had come to hate her old friend. For not only was Peta noisy and vulgar, she was a glutton. There was no softer word for it. She was not just ‘fond of her food’ or had ‘a good appetite’, she sucked and chomped and chewed with relish, all the while inhaling noisily through her nose. She was a party-pooper extraordinaire.

But Maria had been determined that Peta should not find out about the visit to Tommel Castle and so had kept quiet about it until Peta, thinking there was nothing in the offing, had said she was taking a holiday in Hungary.

Sitting in a first-class carriage on the Inverness train, Maria opened her Gucci brief-case and took out a sheaf of notes and thanked God that Peta was far away, slurping and chomping her way up and down the shores of the Danube.

She ran over her notes to double-check that she had paired her singles correctly.

There was Sir Bernard Grant, who owned a chain of clothing stores. A photo of him was pinned to the notes. He was in his late forties, small, round, plump and clever. He was a widower. He had approached the agency because he had found himself too busy and too reluctant to begin dating again at his age. And by the time he joined, it was well known that Checkmate only catered to the rich.

Maria slid out the next sheet of paper. He was to be paired with Jessica Fitt, owner of a florist’s shop in South Kensington. Jessica had a degree in economics from Newcastle University. After various jobs she did not like very much, she had taken a training course in floristry, opened up a shop, and then used her excellent business brain to make it pay. She was a grey lady: grey hair, grey face, and she even wore grey clothes. In her shop, she had confided to Maria, she was deferred to by her staff and known by her regular customers. But outside the shop, people seemed to treat her as if she was invisible. She had recently come round to the idea that a husband would be a good thing, not for sex or romance, but to have someone with her who could catch the eye of the
maître de
in a restaurant. Sir Bernard only wanted a wife because he needed a hostess. Yes, they should hit it off.

The next photograph showed a pleasant-looking young man with a square face, rather small eyes, and a rather large mouth. This was Matthew Cowper, a yuppie, twenty-eight and surely the last person to need the aid of Checkmate. But he had climbed fast in the world from low beginnings and he wanted a wife with a good social background to help him go further. He expected Checkmate to introduce him to the sort of people he would not otherwise meet socially.

He was to be matched with Jenny Trask. Jenny was a legal secretary with a private income from a family trust. She was fairly attractive in a serious way: black hair and glasses, a good mouth, and large blue eyes. She was, however, painfully shy.

Maria put that lot to one side. The train roared across the border into Scotland. It had been muggy and overcast, but now the skies were clear blue and the sun was shining. And Peta was far, far away.

Maria smiled and returned to the rest of her notes. The good-looking features of Peter Trumpington smiled up at her from a large colour photograph. Now,
he
was a prize! He had a large fortune and did not work at anything at all, quite unusual in this age of the common man. But like any other rich man, he was tired of being preyed on and needed the agency to sort out the wheat from the chaff. He had been engaged to a film starlet who had relieved him of a sizeable chunk of money before dumping him. Then a typist caught his eye, a typist whose looks hid the fact that she was dull and rather petty, but he had found that out in time and he had dumped
her
. Although tall and handsome, with dark hair and melting dark eyes, he did not have much personality. He also did not evince any signs of great intelligence.