Death of a Liar (4 page)

“What?”

“Never mind. I wonder where Jimmy has got to. He's supposed to be here.”

“And that's another drunk.”

“He's a good detective,” protested Hamish, who did not like to hear Jimmy criticised. “I'll leave you now and go talk to a few people.”

“Shouldn't take you long,” said Christine. “It's more of a hamlet than a village, although there seem to be a good few cars outside the shop.”

“That's an example of the great bap hunt,” said Hamish. “There's a Polish girl does the baking and they come from all over. Now, there's a thing. They all say that no strangers have been seen in the village. But what about that lot? I'd better get down there.”

Jimmy was just arriving when Hamish reached the shop. He had two policemen with him.

Hamish rapidly told him about the fame of the shop's bakery and how it attracted people from all over. “Easy for someone to mingle with the crowd and suss out the place,” he said.

But diligent questioning by Jimmy, Hamish, and the police officers only elicited the fact that there had been strangers to the village, but no strangers to the Highlands. They were told that people from Lochinver and villages north and south of Cromish had all been recognised, which was what Hamish had previously feared.

“How is the investigation into the Leighs' murders going?” Hamish asked Jimmy.

“That's at a dead end,” said Jimmy. “Daviot is fretting. He's thinking of sending Blair up here while you go back down there. He says it's your village and you've got a better chance of digging something up than Blair.”

“Bad idea,” said Hamish quickly. He did not want to leave Cromish and maybe not see Anka again.

“What! I would ha' thought you'd be desperate to get back to your sheep and hens and rural boredom.”

“Tell you what,” said Hamish, “there's no need for me and Dick to be up here. When you leave, take Dick with you.” He told Jimmy about finding the cigarette packet, the discarded cigarette, and the tyre tracks.

“Well, now I'm here,” said Jimmy, “I may as well go round the village and see if I can dig up anything. Damn! Where did all those black clouds come from? To add to my misery, it's going to rain. I'll give it the whole day and then I'll take Dick Fraser off with me.”

Questions, questions, questions, thought Hamish later that day, and no answers. The wind had risen, sending squalls of lashing rain into his face. Dick had greeted the news that he was returning to Lochdubh with delight. He said he would take Sonsie and Lugs with him.

Hamish waited until Dick was entertaining Jimmy and the policemen with sandwiches and beer from Sophie Mackay's shop and hurried off to see if Anka was at home.

His heart gave a lurch when she opened the door to him. He privately chided himself that he knew nothing really of her character.

“Oh, Hamish,” she said. “Come in. Not more questions?”

“Chust wanted to see how you were,” said Hamish, the sudden sibilance of his accent showing his nervousness. He reflected that he had rarely seen such beauty outside the pages of a glossy magazine. Of course, Priscilla Halburton-Smythe was beautiful, but there was a generous warmth and sexiness about Anka that was lacking in Priscilla, he thought disloyally.

He followed her into the kitchen. “Do you watch a lot of television?” he asked, indicating the set.

“I keep it on for company. Oh, there's your fiancée.”

“What?”

“That news presenter. Your policeman told me you are getting married.”

That's it, thought Hamish bitterly. He's got to go.

“I am not engaged to be married to Elspeth or anyone else,” he said stiffly. “We were engaged at one time but it didn't work out. I don't know why Dick told you that.” Oh, yes, I do, he thought savagely. And I want to deal with that problem, now.

“I've just remembered something,” he said. “I'll call later.”

He marched back to the camping site where Dick was sitting by the fire. “Where's Jimmy?” demanded Hamish.

“The shop's closed and he wanted whisky so he's gone to Kinlochbervie. He'll be back to take me to Lochdubh.”

“And when you're there,” said Hamish coldly, “you can start packing and you know why. I've told you before not to interfere in my private life and I'm sick of you.”

The rain had stopped, but a high wind was sending ragged clouds flying across the moon. Hamish walked to the beach and stared at the crashing waves, beginning to feel he had been too cruel, and then wondering why.

Dick sat miserably by the fire. He would have to go back to Strathbane and its dirty drug-ridden streets, and leave the paradise that Lochdubh was to him. He heard the noise of a boat's engine coming at speed along the coast. To distract himself from his woes, he raised a powerful pair of binoculars and focussed them on the approaching vessel. It was a powerboat. He registered with alarm that a masked man was at the wheel and another masked man was holding a gun.

Dick hurtled down the beach and flung himself on Hamish and drove him down into the sand as a bullet whined over their heads.

“Keep down,” shouted Dick. “Someone's trying to kill you!”

He lay panting on top of Hamish as the boat roared off into the night.

“That was close,” he gasped.

They staggered up from the beach in time to meet Jimmy. When he heard the news, he phoned the coastguard and Strathbane and put out an all-points alert.

“You're a lucky man,” he said to Hamish. “Dick saved your life.”

“Yes, thanks, Dick,” said Hamish, “and let's forget about what I said before.” This was followed by an uncharitable thought that if Dick kept saving his life, as he had done before, he'd never get rid of him.

Elspeth Grant sat sulkily in the front of a Winnebago as it headed north from Glasgow on the next day. She had once been a reporter with the local newspaper in Lochdubh, and her connection to Hamish Macbeth was well known to her bosses. So she had been urged to go and do a report on the murders and the attempted murder of Macbeth.

She did not like leaving her job as news presenter for fear that she might be replaced by someone permanently during her absence. Also, Elspeth told herself, she had got over Hamish and did not want any of her old feelings about him to return to plague her.

Her team consisted of Bertie Andrews, camera, Zak Munro, sound, and Ellie Waters, researcher.

Elspeth had not worked with any of them before. None of them had ever travelled to the very north of Scotland before.

“It's getting dark already,” complained Ellie as they stopped in Lochinver for a coffee.

“There's not much daylight in the winter months,” said Elspeth. As the first stars began to blaze in the sky over the mountains and ever-restless sea, Elspeth began to feel her spirits lift. There was nowhere more beautiful, she thought, than the northwest coast of Sutherland, where the old people still believed in fairies and that the seals were inhabited by the spirits of the dead.

She wondered whether Hamish was back at his police station or still in Cromish, but she had been ordered to go to the village first and do a colour piece.

As they drove into Cromish, she saw there were police and reporters going from house to house.

“We'll need to wait until daylight to get some shots of the village,” complained Bertie.

“Follow me round and get some shots of the locals,” ordered Elspeth. “There might be someone photogenic.” She had been thinking along the lines of something like a gnarled old fisherman but certainly nothing like the beauty that confronted her when Anka opened her door.

Elspeth's first thought was, first Priscilla, now this. She could feel her hair frizzing up and wished she had put on some make-up. She never bothered getting made up until she was talking to the camera.

“I would like to film an interview with you,” said Elspeth after the introductions were over. She knew the other press probably had shots of a beauty like this, and she would never be forgiven if she left such a photogenic subject out of her report.

“Very well,” said Anka reluctantly. “But as I told the police, I really don't know anything.”

“Just take a few minutes,” said Elspeth.

While the cameraman and the soundman got their equipment ready, she retreated to the van where she put on make-up with a practised hand, took off her warm anorak to reveal a pale-blue woollen trouser suit which hugged her figure, slipped on a pair of high heels, and went out to start the interview.

Anka felt the interview and filming were going to go on forever. The enthusiasm of the cameraman, Bertie, seemed to know no bounds. First there was the walking shot of Elspeth approaching the door. Then Anka inviting her in. This was followed by the interview—first of how Anka had come to Cromish and then her reaction to the murders.

“You certainly must wish you were back in Poland,” said Elspeth hopefully.

“No, I like it here,” said Anka. “The murders have nothing to do with me. You see, at first I thought it was some maniac, but now that they have tried to kill Hamish, it means some sort of gang. Drugs, perhaps.”

“You know Hamish?” asked Elspeth sharply.

“Oh, yes. We had a nice chat. So gentle and sympathetic. Not like a policeman at all.”

“Is he still around the village?” asked Elspeth.

“Mrs. Mackay at the shop says he's been called in to police headquarters. Poor man. He must be in shock.”

“He'll survive,” said Elspeth curtly. “He's been shot at before. Don't record any of that last conversation, Zak!”

At the end of a long day, Hamish was back at his police station in Lochdubh, but told to go back to Cromish on the following morning. A search for the boat had gone on all around the coast without success. But Hamish's suggestion that maybe the deaths of the Leighs and Liz were somehow tied up was beginning to look as if it might be true.

As he and Dick drove north, a heavy frost glittered in the headlights. The sun was just rising above the mountains when they headed into Cromish, blazing fiery red on the frost covering the houses and heather. Most of the press had left, but there was one television van parked at the waterfront with the Strathclyde Television logo on the side.

A little way away, Hamish saw the all-too-familiar figure of Elspeth doing a piece to camera. She was wearing a power suit with a very short skirt and a pair of stilettos.

She looked across and saw him. A trick of the light made her odd silvery eyes shine red.

“Hamish,” she said, approaching him. “Is there anything you can tell me? Why would someone want to kill you?”

“Haven't a clue,” said Hamish. His red hair blazed with purple lights in the rising sun.

“Can I do an interview?”

“Elspeth, you know better than that. Strict instructions from headquarters. No interviews.”

Dick shuffled his regulation boots. He could not forget that Hamish had nearly married Elspeth. If only all these women would go away, if only the murders would be solved and he could go back to his easy life in the police station.

Sonsie stared at Elspeth, her fur raised, but Lugs ran forward for a pat.

“Have you got anything at all that might help me?” asked Hamish.

“Amazing that no one heard anything at all,” said Elspeth. “I've got enough for a colour piece, including an interview with a very beautiful Polish lady.”

“That would be Anka,” said Hamish, trying to sound indifferent.

Elspeth looked at him with a certain sadness in her eyes. “Don't get involved, Hamish. You'll get hurt.”

Elspeth came from a Gypsy family and often had psychic experiences. Hamish repressed a shudder.

“Well, I'm off after I get into something more comfortable,” said Elspeth.

Hamish bent and kissed her on the cheek. She smelled somehow of clean air and heather.

He suddenly wished it could have worked out. But she turned away and disappeared into the van just as Hamish's phone rang.

“'Member me?” said a hoarse voice. “Scully Baird. I ken who tried to kill ye.”

“Who?” demanded Hamish.

“Someone's coming. Meet me in the Wee Man.”

“I'm up in Cromish. I can be there in a couple of hours' time.”

“Right,” said Scully, and rang off.

The Wee Man was an unsavoury pub in the backstreets of Strathbane. Jimmy arrived to hear Hamish's latest news.

“Could be a trap,” he said. “You stay here and I'll get someone to pick Scully up and sweat him for a name.”

“Won't work,” said Hamish. “He'll only talk to me. Scully was in with some really bad drug gangs before he cleaned up his act. I'll go.”

“Oh, all right.” Jimmy looked round and then leered. “Also, how you can leave the ladies behind is beyond me.”

Elspeth had just emerged from the van in her travelling clothes and Anka stood at the edge of the scene.

Was ever a woman put on this earth to scramble up a man's brains like Anka? thought Hamish. A kitchen goddess who can bake baps and who has the face of an angel.

He turned away to brief Dick but had to wait while Dick unloaded the vast amount of things he thought he might need from the back of the Land Rover.

The weather had changed again as he crested the hill leading down into Strathbane. A greasy drizzle was smearing the windscreen, and low clouds lay over the grimy town.

Hamish had changed into civilian clothes and a disguise. He had posted on a fake moustache and pulled a woollen hat over his flaming hair. He parked the Land Rover outside police headquarters and then set off on foot.

The Wee Man was a squalid pub. He pushed open the door and went into the dark interior, which was punctuated with blue lights from the electronic cigarettes of the customers. Hamish had given up smoking but often craved a cigarette. He wondered if these fake cigarettes were any good. He ordered a tonic water and then looked around but could not see Scully.

Hamish chose a table in the corner where he could see the entrance. Time dragged on. He was about to give up when the door opened and Scully came in. Although Scully was only twenty years old, his previous drug taking had aged him and given him a wasted look. He was very thin with large hands and feet.

“Get me a drink,” said Scully, sitting down and pulling a black woollen cap off his head. “Double whisky.”

Hamish got it for him, sat down, and said, “Out with it.”

Scully took a gulp of his drink. Hamish had found him half-dead of drugs a year ago on one of his rare visits to Strathbane. He had rushed him to hospital, and after he was detoxed had taken him back to Lochdubh and locked him in the cell until he was sure the young man was completely clear. He had then put Scully into rehab.

Scully took a gulp of his drink. “You know the Cameron gang?”

“Aye,” said Hamish.

“Well, it was you that led to Cameron being arrested and banged up. But he got out on parole and disappeared. In the gang there's a newcomer, Wayne Forest. Cameron fancies himself a big-time gang boss like in the movies and so he tells this Wayne he has to make his bones.”

“You mean Wayne has to kill someone?”

“Aye. For sure. And he's told that someone is you. Cameron sees you're in Cromish from the telly. He pinches a speedboat and gets Wayne a high-powered rifle.”

“Where did you hear this?” demanded Hamish sharply. “You're not back on the stuff, are you?”

“Not me. But that lot never could keep their mouths shut.”

“But no speedboat was reported missing.”

“That's 'cos it was Fergus Fitz's speedboat.”

“His rival drug dealer.”

“Right.”

“Where's Cameron holed up?”

“You know Bevan Mansions?”

“The tower block down at the docks?”

“That's the one. Top floor. Number one hundred and fifty-eight.”

“Are you going to need witness protection, Scully?”

“You know how it is. You go into the witness protection and the police aye house you in the equivalent to what you're living in. You live in a slum, so they put you in another slum. I'd best clear off.”

“Thanks, Scully. I'll see if I can get you some sort of award.”

“Don't,” said Scully. “Cameron's got feelers everywhere and I bet that includes the police.”

“Okay,” said Hamish. “But keep off the booze or I'll have to put you back into rehab.”

“Booze isnae drugs.”

“Same difference,” said Hamish.

By rights, Hamish should have reported to Blair. But instead he called Jimmy.

The first thing Jimmy said was, “Have you told Blair?”

“He'll mess it up. He'll shoot his mouth off all over headquarters and we might have a policeman who's in Cameron's pay.”

“Can't get round it, Hamish. Try to report direct to Daviot. Cameron will be armed and we'll need permission for armed police. I'll get down there myself and we'll go in about two in the morning. I'll pick you up at headquarters.”

As Hamish entered headquarters, he asked a policeman if Blair was around and heard to his relief that the detective inspector was off sick. Probably a hangover, thought Hamish as he made his way up to Daviot's office.

“He is not to be disturbed,” snapped Daviot's secretary, Helen, who loathed Hamish.

“This is a national emergency,” said Hamish.

He opened the door to Daviot's office and walked in. The chief superintendent was slumbering in the chair behind his desk.

Hamish went out again and shut the door. Then he banged on it loudly and walked in again.

Daviot was now studying a sheaf of papers. He looked up. “What is the reason for this intrusion, Macbeth? I did ask not to be disturbed.”

Hamish put his cap on the desk and sat down, and before Daviot, who expected inferiors to stand in his presence, could complain, he rapidly outlined what he had found out about the attempt on his life.

Daviot began to look excited. “This is wonderful news, Hamish. Has Mr. Blair started organising things?”

“Well, the poor man is off sick,” said Hamish. “Anderson is heading back down to arrange everything. We're going in at two in the morning.”

“Good, good. Really, this demands a celebration.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk and, when Helen came in, asked her to fetch tea and cakes.

The Highlands is the place to be, thought Hamish amused. Any other police station, they'd be pouring out whisky, but up here, it's tea and cakes.

“So that means,” said Daviot, “if your informant is correct, the attempt on your life has nothing to do with our murder cases?”

“Seems that way, sir.”

“Ah, Helen, what have we here? Eccles cakes! How splendid. I am very partial to Eccles cakes, and Dundee cake, too! My Helen can't be beaten.”

“Maybe,” said Hamish as Helen deliberately slopped tea into his saucer. “But there's a lassie up in Cromish that bakes baps like baps should be and usually never are.”

“Do you hear that, Helen? You must get me some, Hamish.”

Helen went out and slammed the door.

“And how is Fraser getting on up there?” asked Daviot.

How Hamish longed to put the boot in and ask that Dick be transferred to Strathbane. Daviot was so happy that he would allow it. But Dick had saved his life.

“Just grand,” said Hamish. “Works very hard.” Cleaning, polishing, and dusting, he thought bitterly.

“I would suggest, sir,” said Hamish as Daviot was about to pick up the phone, “that you arrange the armed squad but do not tell them where they are going or why until the very last minute.”

“And why is that?”

“Because one of them might talk to a wife or girlfriend who might talk to her friends and before you know it, news of the raid will be all over Strathbane.”

“Just what I was thinking,” said Daviot crossly. “You must not try to tell me how to do my job, Macbeth.”

Hamish returned to Lochdubh to get an hour's sleep and savour having the place to himself.

He arrived back at police headquarters an hour earlier than he had been instructed to report there. Jimmy had been told to head the raid. Hamish knew that Jimmy, who sometimes had a fit of what Hamish privately damned as the Blairs, might try to go without him.

Sure enough, they were just setting out. He jumped back into his Land Rover and followed them. Policemen, detectives, and SWAT team members gathered in a vacant lot near the tower block.

“Quietly, lads,” said Jimmy. They all spread out, policemen covering back and front entrances of the tower block while the SWAT team went in.

Hamish approached Jimmy. “Were you trying to keep me out of this?”

“Yes, I was,” said Jimmy. “It was for your own good. I didn't want one of them trying to kill you.”

“Havers,” said Hamish bitterly.

The very air around the dismal tower blocks was foul, smelling of sour earth, urine, and beer.

Suddenly they could faintly hear shouts and yells coming from the top of the tower block where Hamish had been told Cameron lived.

He silently prayed that Scully was right.

He heaved a sigh of relief when a handcuffed procession escorted by the SWAT team finally emerged. He recognised Percy Cameron and wondered illogically whether being named Percy had driven him to a life of crime. Three other men were with him, along with a spotty youth.

Jimmy had a quick consultation with the leader of the SWAT team and then returned to Hamish. Pleased with the success of the raid, Jimmy was now feeling guilty about trying to keep Hamish out of it. “Drive me back, Hamish,” he said, “and I'll fill you in.”

As they headed back to police headquarters, Jimmy said, “The forensic lot are on their way. Masses of every type of class A drug in that flat and a wee laboratory for making crystal meth. They'll all go away for a long time. Do you want to sit in on the interviews?”

“I'd like to interview Wayne Forest first to make sure he got his orders from Cameron,” said Hamish.

“Right,” said Jimmy. “I'll arrange it.”

But Jimmy experienced a sharp pang of jealousy when they were met by Daviot, saying, “Well done, Hamish. We need more men like you in Strathbane.”

Wayne started by demanding a lawyer and was told sharply that under Scots law, he would only get a lawyer when the police decided to let him have one.

He was an unsavoury youth with lank greasy hair and prematurely bent shoulders, probably from slouching from an early age.

Wayne stared at them defiantly as the questioning began in earnest once the preliminaries were over.

“Did Cameron order you to shoot me?” asked Hamish.

Wayne smirked. “No comment.”

Hamish was normally a placid, easy-going man. But he saw red. This useless piece of garbage had caused Dick to save his life, trapping Hamish forever after, amen, in the police station with him.

“You useless piece of shit,” roared Hamish. He marched round the desk, picked up Wayne, and slammed him up against the wall.

“It was Cameron. He tellt me tae do it,” wailed Wayne, and burst into tears.

Suddenly appalled at his own outburst, Hamish lifted Wayne gently back into his chair and said quietly, “Now be a good wee laddie and write it all down.”

Later, when Wayne's confession was secured, and Jimmy and Hamish had retreated to the police canteen, Jimmy said, “It got a good result. But what came over you, man? I've never seen you lose your cool like that before.”

Hamish shrugged. “I wanted an end o' it. There are still two murders to solve.”

“When we've finished our coffee, we'd best get back downstairs, see what they've got on the Leighs. Then you'd better get back to Cromish,” said Jimmy.

But there was very little to learn as there had not been any documents, passports, or credit cards found in the old school. The sale had been handled by an estate agent in Dingwall, employed by Strathbane's schools department. The full amount had been paid by a cheque from a bank in Luxembourg and signed by an H. J. Story. Luxembourg banks were notoriously secretive but had finally told Interpol that the mysterious Mr. Story had cleared out the account and closed it down once the cheque for the sale of the schoolhouse was through. Mr. Story had initially opened the account six months before the sale by depositing two million euros. And for a deposit of two million euros, the bank had not studied his paperwork very closely. They produced a copy of his passport and an address in Luxembourg. Police went to the address to find that Mr. Story had only rented the apartment; there was no sign of him. The apartment was now rented to a couple with three small children and there seemed not to be any hope of getting DNA or fingerprints.

“Daviot's not satisfied,” said Jimmy. “He's sending me and Blair over to Luxembourg in a couple of days' time to see if we can dig up anything.”

“Once Blair get his hands on the duty-frees,” said Hamish, “you'll probably spend the time coping with him. What about cameras at the bank?”

“They say they destroy the tapes after three months.”

“There must be a huge amount of money involved,” said Hamish. “Money laundering from drugs or arms sales, maybe. Or some big heist. There have been a lot of jewel robberies in France, in Paris and in Cannes. Millions' worth stolen. Anything there? I don't think there can be any tie-up wi' Cameron. He's too small-time to be in the international league if it turns out to be drugs.”

“I think Luxembourg is going to be crowded,” said Jimmy. “Interpol is working on it and Scotland Yard are sending experts. Oh, God! What will they make of Blair? Oh, well, off you go. By the way, no one's had time with all this, but you might like to find more about that Anka female. I mean, what's someone who looks as if she came off the catwalk doing up in the back o' beyond?”