Hamish Macbeth 12 (1996) - Death of a Macho Man (18 page)

There was a heavy silence while Beale nursed his glass and stared out at the rain.

Hamish turned the scene over in his mind and then said softly, “So you struck her.”

“How did you know that!”

“What any man in those circumstances would do,” said Hamish, who could not envisage raising his hand to any woman.

“Aye, well I slapped her about a bit and then I got drunk and then I went to see a lawyer. When I got back, she’d gone land so had the letter to her sister.

“From what I gathered from the police, she had in fact married me just to prove something to her sister. Och, women!” He drained his glass, choked and wiped his mouth. He made restless movements as if to leave. Hamish fished in the capacious pocket of his waxed coat and produced a half-bottle of whisky he had had the forethought to buy in Inverness. He unscrewed the top and filled Beale’s glass right up. “Thank you,” said Beale.

“I hope I’m not keeping you from the sheep sale.”

“Och, no. The usual. I find out who got the highest price and then run a wee bit about the other prices. I’ve been doing it for years. That’s where Rosie got me. Money. Promise of security. Someone to warm my slippers in my old age. What was up wi’ her?”

“Her agent thought she might be lesbian, although there is no proof of that at all.”

“God, I wish there were some proof. Know what I mean? I’ve never felt so rejected and humiliated in my life! I could have killed her.”

Another silence. The rain, increasing in force, drummed on thereof of the car.

“Someone murdered Duggan,” said Hamish quietly.

“Here! What d’ye mean? Beck did it.”

“I don’t think so. I think Beck wanted to get even with his wife. He had done the one murder. Why not confess to the other? The police are all too happy to have it all wrapped up. What do you think?”

“I never knew Duggan.” His eyes were sharp. “So you think it was someone else?”

“Aye. Did Rosie ever contact you again? Did she ever hint she might know something about this Duggan?”

“Never heard a word from the bitch and didn’t want to.”

Hamish, seeing he had finished his drink, poured him another, felt obliged to tell him to be sure and sober up before he drove back to Inverness, and then left him. Afterwards, he was to think that the rain must have affected his brain. It did not dawn on him at the time that he had told a reporter that he did not believe that Beck had murdered Duggan.

§

Blair was summoned to Superintendent Peter Daviot’s office the following morning. Mr. Daviot had a copy of the Inverness Daily spread out on his desk. “Have you seen this?” demanded the superintendent in a thin voice.

“No, sir,” said Blair curiously, wondering what a paper which specialized in stories no less dramatic man ‘Beauty Ferret Bites Housewife’ could contain that should be so upsetting.

“Macbeth has been shooting his mouth off to some reporter called Beale about how he is looking for the murderer of Duggan, how he does not believe that Beck did it. Dammit, isn’t that the very Beale who was married to Rosie Draly? This is
sub judice
, apart from anything else. Where the hell is the bastard?”

“We gave him a week off.”

“Then get him and bring him back, and I don’t care if it takes every man on the force to do it.”

Blair went out with a solemn face, but once outside began to whistle a jaunty tune. Macbeth was in deep shit. Life was good.

An hour later, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, icily splendid and splendidly null, faced Blair and Anderson and Macnab in the office of the Tommel Castle Hotel. No, she did not have the faintest idea where Hamish Macbeth had gone. No, she could not even guess. Now, they were very busy, so if there was nothing else…? In a fury, Blair crashed around Lochdubh, bullying and threatening. Then he went over to Cnothan to see Sergeant Macgregor. Hamish might have gone to see his stand-in.

Sergeant Macgregor had not seen the Inverness Daily, so when Blair said curdy, “Macbeth is missing. Have you seen him? Any idea where he is?” the sergeant suddenly thought guiltily of that spent rifle bullet lying in his waste-basket. If Macbeth was found dead and that wee boy came forward to tell the police about the rifle bullet he would be in trouble. He eptitiously pulled the waste-paper basket forward with his foot. “It’s funny you should say that,” he said. “I hae something here I was just going to phone you about.” He bent down jerked open the bottom drawer and then scrabbled quickly the waste-paper basket straightening up, holding out the bullet. “A wee boy found this up on Ben Loss where Hamish he was shot at. I would hae reported it right away, but you said Macbeth was making it up.”

Blair stared at that bullet. The policeman in him warred with the man who would have liked to ignore the whole thing.

“What,” he demanded wrathfully, “are you doing handling the thing with your great fat, stupid fingers? Anderson, take it from him and put it in an envelope.”

Jimmy Anderson took out a pair of tweezers and lifted the bullet from Macgregor’s now sweating hand and dropped it into a plastic envelope. “You’ll hear further of this,” said Blair. “Now where’s Macbeth?”

“I don’t know. He just said he was off for a week.”

“I’ll get that bastard,” growled Blair. But no one thought of calling the Glasgow police.

And Hamish could have continued his investigations quietly when he got to Glasgow had not been for the reaction of Peter Daviot when he heard about that rifle bullet. He had just heard of Hamish’s view that Beck did not murder Duggan. He remembered all me times Hamish had been right when all the evidence pointed the other way. Then Hamish was missing and there was that bullet.

He shuddered to think of the scandal if Hamish Macbeth were found dead. An official photograph of Hamish was dug out of the files and issued to the press. An all-stations alert was put out. They could not rouse Hamish on his radio, for he had switched it off.

§

Hamish, however, had his car radio tuned into a pop-music station and was whistling along to it as he approached the outskirts of Glasgow. Then the music died away and a serious announcer’s voice said, ‘We interrupt this broadcast for a special announcement’. In a sweat, Hamish listened to the voice which went on to say that Constable Hamish Macbeth was to report to the nearest police station. He pulled into a garage by the side of the road and sat staring miserably through the windscreen. He remembered what he had said to Beale, a reporter, of all people. It was too good a story for Beale to ignore. And then he turned and looked out at the rack of newspapers outside the garage. No photograph of himself stared out from the pages; but he climbed out and bought a copy of the Daily Record. There it was in the stop press. ‘Highland cop who believes Beck currently under arrest for the murder of Randy Duggan did not do it has gone missing. All-stations alert.’

There would be a photograph of him in the papers the next day, he was sure of it. It was a miracle his conspicuous police Land Rover had not been spotted.

He drove to Bearsden on the outskirts of Glasgow, a wealthy suburb, and drove to a trim bungalow owned by some cousin, so distant on the Macbeth family tree, a mere twig, that he had not seen her in years. Her name was Josie Sinclair. To his delight he saw a wooden garage at the end of the small drive next to the bungalow. It was empty. Without checking at the house first, he drove the police Land Rover straight into it, lifted out his suitcase, walked out and closed the garage doors behind him.

A dog barked sharply from within the house, Josie appealed at the back-door, shouting, “Who’s there?”

“It’s me, Hamish.” He strolled forward, carrying his suitcase.

Josie was a small, dark-haired woman with a chinless face and prominent nose.

“Heavens,” she said. “Hamish! I’ve just been hearing about you on the radio. But come in. Tell me what on earth is happening.”

Hamish followed her into the bungalow. He felt suddenly weary. He wondered whether to start to tell a series of whopping lies, but one look at Josie’s worried honest eyes made him settle for the truth. “Sit down, Josie,” he said. “It’s a long story.”

Josie listened while he outlined the murders of Duggan and Rosie and then explained what he was doing in Glasgow.

She listened carefully without comment, but when he had finished, she said, “My son, Callum, is away in the Gulf, so you can have his room.” Hamish remembered suddenly her husband had died three years before. “There’s only one thing. Even if you find the real murderer, or anything leading to who the right murderer might be, you’re not going to have a job to go back to.”

“I’ll take that risk. Look, Josie, I think there might be a picture of me in the papers tomorrow. I’ll need to change my appearance.”

“I’ll do my best for you, Hamish. I’ll always do my best for the family. But you’ll need to keep me out of it.”

“I promise, Josie.”

“So how are you going to get about? You can’t drive that police thing.”

“I’ll think o’ something.”

“I’ve still got my poor Johnny’s driving license. You could use that to rent a car. If you’re caught, you must say you broke in here and stole it.”

“You’re a brick, Josie.”

She gave a reluctant laugh. “I’m a daft fool. Well, let’s get started after we have a cup of tea. It’s a good thing for you that I dye my hair. The first thing to do is to get rid of that red hair of yours.”

§

By late afternoon, Hamish had short black hair, a black moustache made from cuttings of his own hair, and a pair of wire-rimmed glasses. Wearing one of the late Johnny Sinclair’s business suits and in possession of a hired car, he drove into Glasgow. He parked the car and went to a phone box and called an old friend of his, Detective Sergeant Bill Walton.

“Don’t say my name,” said Hamish when Bill came on the phone. “Don’t shop me, Bill, I need to see you.”

“I’m off duty in half an hour,” said Bill in his usual flat voice. Bill, Hamish remembered, never seemed to be surprised at anything. “You’d best come round to my flat. It’s in Bath Street, next to that new hotel.” He gave Hamish the address.

Hamish left the car where it was and then slowly walked to Bath Street. He stood in a doorway opposite Bill’s flat. His heart sank when a police car screamed up, seemingly full of policemen. But only Bill got out and the car drove off. Still Hamish waited until he saw Bill go upstairs.

After a few more cautious moments, he crossed the road and rang the bell. The door buzzer went and he let himself in and climbed the stairs. Bill was waiting at the top.

“You look like a bank clerk on a bad day,” he commented. “It is yourself, is it not?”

“Aye,” said Hamish.

He followed Bill into a dark and dingy flat Bill switched on a two-bar electric heater in the grate and pulled the curtains closed and then switched on the light. Landlord’s furniture, thought Hamish, looking round the dismal living-room, but no sign of any woman. Good. Just Bill.

Bill Walton was a tall middle-aged man with a face like Buster Keaton. “So you’re on the run, are you, Hamish? And in disguise? You’d best have a dram and tell me all about it before I send for the wee men in the white coats.”

So for the second time that day, Hamish talked and talked about the murder cases while Bill listened patiently.

“I’ve never doubted your intelligence before, Hamish,” said Bill when Hamish had finished. “But, man, what were you about to tell a reporter all about it?”

“I don’t know,” said Hamish miserably. “It must have been the damn rain.”

“What are you talking about?”

“You don’t know. You don’t live in the Highlands,” said Hamish obscurely.

“So I’m supposed to turn you in and if I’m found out helping you in this, I’ll lose my job and I haven’t long to go before retirement. But a lot of what you’ve said makes sense, don’t ask me why. This Randy had plastic surgery. How can you pick his face out o’ the rogues’ gallery when the experts couldn’t?”

“I’ll bet they werenae looking hard enough and dropped the whole thing when Beck confessed,” said Hamish. He added shrewdly, “And I’ll bet Blair managed to put up so many backs in Glasgow that they didnae really bother.”

“Dreadful pillock, that man, Blair. I remember when he was a copper down here. Yes, you’re right, he did put backs up. You know how it goes. We don’t like being bossed around by another force, and a Highland one at that.”

“So is there any way I could get a look at the rogues’ gallery?”

“Looking like you do, no one would recognize you. I can just march you into the station. But what rogues’ gallery do you want to look into? Murderers, muggers, rapists? What?”

“If it were a revenge killing,” said Hamish slowly, “then there would be money involved, possibly a lot of money.”

“So you’re looking for a big-time robbery?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ve got a date tonight,” said Bill and then blushed.

“I neffer thought of you as a ladies’ man.”

“I’m not. This is someone special. You’re in for a late night. Off with you now and meet me at headquarters at one in the morning. It’ll be real quiet men. People are always looking through photos. I’ll meet you outside and take you in.”

“Thanks, Bill. I’ll never forget this.”

“I’ve a feeling I won’t either. Now remember, if you’re caught, I didn’t know who you were. You tricked me.”

“I promise.”

“Okay. See you later.”

Hamish went out into the evening. He did not want to go back out to Bearsden. He phoned Josie from a call-box and told her not to expect him back that night. He then went to a cinema. He was never quite sure afterwards what the film was that he saw. The enormity of what he had done was seizing up his brain. Why on earth had he not believed Beck? Why had he not gone to Strathbane with his doubts? Why had he assumed they would take Beck’s word for it without checking thoroughly?

Away from his native Highlands and here in this vast, bustling city full of uncaring people, he felt like the Highland idiot people often thought he was. He could not seem to think clearly any more.

He had a dismal meal in an all-night cafe, and then went back to the car-park and sat and waited for one in the morning. He nearly fell asleep but jerked himself fully awake and glanced at the clock on the dashboard. Ten to one.