Death of a Sweep (11 page)

Oh, the magic of television, thought Hamish bitterly as some of the police began obviously posing for the camera. He was glad to see the formidable figure of Police
Inspector
Mary Benson climbing out of the car. She shouted at the television crew to get back up on the road and stop compromising a crime scene or she would have them all arrested.

Hamish had to tell his story all over again. ‘And how come you recognized this girl and how did you know she worked for Scots Entertainment?’

Cautiously, Hamish explained that he had been
escorting
Angela to her publisher and he decided to pass the time by interviewing the neighbours in a close in the Canongate where Betty Close might have been last seen. The one neighbour in the flat under where a prostitute had been murdered had said he worked for Scots
Entertainment
so he had gone to have a look at their offices and it was there that he had seen Sonia.

‘I can’t understand all this and what led you to think that the death of a prostitute in an Edinburgh tenement should have anything to do with the murder of Captain
Davenport
. Give me a full report tomorrow.’

After she had read the news bulletin the next day, Elspeth went to her dressing room. What on earth was Hamish
Macbeth doing? Was he having an affair with Angela? They had always been very close. Surely not. The door of her dressing room opened, and her boss walked in. ‘You’d best get up to Lochdubh,’ he said. ‘You know this copper. Great stuff.’

‘It’s hardly a great Hollywood-type scandal,’ protested Elspeth.

‘Come on. Madame Bovary in a wee highland village? Get going.’

Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, sitting at her computer desk in a London office, got a call from her father. ‘Heard the latest about Hamish Macbeth?’ he demanded and, without waiting for her reply, gave her a highly embroidered account of the scandal, ending with, ‘It was the best thing that ever happened when you broke off your engagement to Macbeth.’

‘He broke it off,’ protested Priscilla.

‘Thank goodness you’re well out of it,’ remarked her father.

Hamish was ordered by Daviot to stay locked inside his police station until headquarters drafted out a statement to defuse the scandal. Still shocked after the accident, Hamish stayed in bed, only rousing himself when he heard Jimmy’s voice on his answering machine saying he was outside the police-station door.

Hamish let him in and slammed the door in the faces of the press.

‘You look like shit,’ he said cheerfully, ‘but things are moving. Edinburgh police said the offices of Scots
Entertainment
were closed down. The man you took a photo of had been identified as Nick Duke, a villain who now seems to have disappeared. They raided the offices of Scots Entertainment and found it was a front for a brothel, but
no girls were to be found and the safe was empty. That chap John Dean, who lived under where yon prostitute was killed, has vanished as well.’

‘Not much farther forward,’ said Hamish gloomily.

‘It showed you were right. It all ties together. So what the hell have you been up to?’

‘Nothing. Angela’s a dear friend. I could wring her neck for landing me in this mess.’

‘Cheer up. There’s good news.’

‘I could do with some.’

‘Angela Brodie woke up in the Raigmore Hospital in Inverness and who does she find sitting by her bed but Blair.’

‘What?’

‘He says she should get her revenge on you for leading her astray and wets his fat lips and asks for all the juicy details. Now, Angela’s got a wee tape recorder in her handbag and switches it on. She’d been taping the awards ceremony. “Explain yourself,” she says.

‘He says that everyone now knows that Macbeth had been getting into her knickers, and then his remarks got even cruder and dirtier. So when she thinks she’s got enough, she presses the buzzer and orders him out. Then she phones Daviot and plays the tape. Daviot hits the roof and suspends Blair.’

‘Where’s Angela now?’

‘She checked out and she’s back home.’

Hamish’s answering machine sounded again. Elspeth’s voice: ‘Hamish, I’m up in the fields at the back. If you open the kitchen window, I can get in that way. I know I can get you out of this.’

‘Daviot says you’re not to speak to the press,’ said Jimmy.

‘Oh, she won’t do anything I don’t want.’ Hamish opened the kitchen window.

After five minutes, Elspeth climbed in. She looked more like the Elspeth Hamish once knew rather than the
sophisticated television presenter she had become. The day was damp and drizzly, and her hair was once more frizzy. She was wearing an anorak over a sweater and cords.

‘So what’s the latest?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘I’ve just been sent back up here.’

‘I have to stay locked in here and not speak to the press,’ said Hamish.

‘That’ll make things worse. I’m supposed to get you, Angela, and Dr Brodie together to make a statement and scotch this scandal. The public have only got to see Angela and her husband together with you to show everyone it’s all a load of rubbish.’

‘Daviot’ll go mad,’ said Hamish.

‘I’ll fix him. I’ll just use your office.’ She went into the police-station office and slammed the door.

‘Whisky?’ demanded Jimmy.

‘Aye, I could do with a dram.’ Hamish lifted down the bottle and put three glasses on the table.

He was just pouring when Elspeth reappeared looking triumphant. ‘It’s all fixed.’

‘How did you manage it?’

‘Daviot is to appear with you. He loves the idea of being on television. He said he would be glad to let the matter be settled. He will give Angela all the help she needs
provided
she doesn’t sue them for Blair’s behaviour.’

‘So where’s the filming to take place?’

‘The Tommel Castle Hotel.’

‘And how do you get me and the Brodies up there
without
the other press crowding in?’

‘Daviot is sending a police car to take the Brodies to a private room at the hotel. I’ll have my crew already in there and set up. The press will follow, but they’ll be locked out.’

‘Then they’ll all write spoiling stories.’

‘Daviot’s bringing lawyers to have a word with them all afterwards. They’ll need to be careful.’

‘So how do we get there?’

‘Out the window, Hamish. I’ve got a four-wheel drive parked up in the fields. Also, you wanted press pressure on the police to solve the murders. Here’s your chance.’

Elspeth was glad she had brought a make-up artist with her because Angela looked a wreck. Her flyaway hair was even more dishevelled and her face was white and drawn. Dr Brodie had not quite recovered from his attack of the norovirus, and he looked weak and shaky.

Only Daviot looked happy, surrendering to the
ministrations
of the make-up artist and getting his silver hair brushed till it shone.

‘I think you should go first, Angela,’ said Elspeth. ‘Tell the folks about being a writer and how you used the local colour and your experiences of being a doctor’s wife.’

‘Must I?’ asked Angela in a low voice.

‘This scandal has to be stopped,’ said Elspeth. ‘Oh, I phoned your publisher. Sales of your books are good.’

‘They are?’

‘Right up there.’

Angela came over well. Heartened by the news of her sales, protective of her husband, she described how the plot had come about. She held her husband’s hand throughout.

Daviot then spoke and said that Hamish Macbeth was a valued officer and a model of good behaviour. When he had finished, he added magnanimously, ‘Would you like to say a few words, Mr Macbeth?’

Hamish had more than a few words to say. After
describing
the Brodies as old and valued friends, he then said, ‘I would like to make an appeal to the public.’

‘Is this about the murders?’ asked Elspeth.

‘Yes.’ Hamish described everything he had found out from the murder of Captain Davenport right up to the attack on him and Angela. He linked the murders of Philomena Davenport, Betty Close, and the prostitute. He
appealed for anyone with news about Scots Entertainment to come forward and anyone who also had information about the missing John Dean.

Elspeth wound up the interviews, holding up a copy of Angela’s book and urging people to buy it while stocks lasted.

Mr Johnson, the manager, then served sandwiches and drinks. ‘I will just make a statement to the press outside,’ said Daviot, and he left the room followed by his lawyers.

Lochdubh had watched the whole thing on television with great feelings of disappointment. There was no doubting the sincerity of Hamish or the Brodies. Mutterings about the presents given to Dr Brodie spread around the village. Archie Maclean, the fisherman, was ordered to go to the doctor’s and take back the cod he had given him. Timid Archie lied and said it had been eaten.

And Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth returned wearily to his police station and prayed that something would break so that the shadow of murder could leave. He decided that Strathbane were not going to inflict another policeman on him, as Tolly, his former constable, had taken early retirement. He had already sent Tolly’s belongings to him. He dragged out several items of furniture but then realized he was very tired and left them sitting on his living-room floor.

Impatient for news, the following day Hamish decided to visit John McFee and find out what was taking him so long.

He drove over to Craskie. The day was so sunny and fine that somehow it seemed to intensify his worries. The normally heaving Atlantic, where some of the old people still believed the blue men rode the waves, was docile and temporarily tamed. The mountains of Sutherland soared up majestically to a clear blue sky. Even the normally wheeling, screeching gulls seemed to be silent. It was as if the whole of nature had paused to enjoy the beauty of this rare summer’s day.

Hamish knocked at John’s door and waited. He was just about to knock again when he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching from the other side. The door creaked open and Hamish bit back an exclamation of
dismay
. John appeared to have dwindled in size. His thick white hair had gone and he was as bald as a coot.

‘What’s wrong with ye?’ demanded Hamish, his voice sharp with anxiety.

‘Lung cancer,’ said John. ‘Come ben.

He stood aside. Hamish walked into the small cluttered living room. His eyes ranged over the place. He could not see a computer. John slumped in an armchair by the fireplace.

‘How long have you known?’ asked Hamish.

‘Months,’ said John wearily. ‘The chemo didn’t work. I’ve come home to die.’

‘How long have you got?’

‘Weeks, maybe months if I’m lucky.’ There was an oxygen tank beside his chair. John fumbled with it and attached tubes to his nose.

‘Why didn’t you tell me, man? I don’t see a computer.’

‘Fact is, Hamish, I never learned how to use a computer and my old associates, them that aren’t dead, couldn’t help me.’

‘But the wasted time? You should have said something. Why didn’t you?’

‘I did try my best. It took my mind off my troubles. I felt important. I told the neighbours I was working for the police.’

‘Are you getting home help?’

‘Yes, I’ve got a carer. She’s off at the shops, and the doctor calls regularly.’

There was silence. The oxygen machine sent out a
rhythmic
clicking sound. John lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.

Hamish curbed his temper. He could hardly shout about the wasted time, not when the poor man was dying.

‘Never mind,’ he said. ‘I’ll be off.’

John opened his eyes and said faintly, ‘Do you think there is a God?’

‘Maybe,’ said Hamish, but once outside he muttered to himself, ‘Not right now, I don’t.’

Hamish drove to police headquarters in Strathbane,
confident
that at least he would not run into Blair as, last
heard, the man was still suspended. Jimmy was not around so Hamish went to Jimmy’s favourite pub and found the detective sitting at a table in the corner.

‘Shouldn’t you be working?’ snapped Hamish, who was still furious over the time John McFee had wasted.

‘I’m on my break,’ said Jimmy mildly. ‘Sit down and stop looming over me.’

‘Any news on Scots Entertainment?’

‘It’s controlled by a company registered in the Ukraine. That’s as far as we’ve got. How’s your expert getting on?’

Hamish told him about John McFee.

‘Poor auld sod,’ said Jimmy. ‘Never mind. Your telly appeal has galvanized the experts and we should get
something
soon, but thae shell companies are the devil.’

Hamish sat down, removed his cap, and put it on the table. ‘I’ve been thinking, Jimmy.’

‘Bad sign. Have a drink.’

‘I’m driving. I’ve been thinking that say those four men were involved and got cheated out of some really serious money. It must have been some sort of big scam, and I think the clue lies in Edinburgh. Maybe it was something other than that gold mine. Now, I mind there’s a
businessmen’s
club there, called the Merlin. I wish I could get in there.’

‘Aye, and if one of the famous four is there as well and spots you, you might not get back to Lochdubh in one piece.’

‘I could go in disguise. I’m a rare hand at the
disguises
.’

Jimmy looked cynically at Hamish’s flaming red hair. ‘I could spot ye a mile off. Forget it, Hamish. Remember the tongue twister? The Leith police dismisseth us? It’ll be nothing to what Edinburgh police’ll do if you poach on their territory. There’s already been rumblings about you snooping around the Canongate and Scots Entertainment without telling them. They learned about that somehow.’

‘Just an idea,’ said Hamish vaguely. ‘Let me know as soon as you get anything.’

Back at the police station, he phoned David Harrison, who owned a large factory outside Edinburgh which
manufactured
goods for the tourist trade. David had once been on holiday in Lochdubh, and they had spent some time fishing together.

Hamish explained that he’d like to disguise himself as a wealthy businessman, Scottish but visiting from Canada, to get an entrée to the Merlin Club. ‘I could take you along tomorrow for lunch and get you booked in as a temporary member,’ said David. ‘I’m busy at the moment, but meet me there and tell me all about it tomorrow.’

When he had rung off, Hamish rang Elspeth. ‘We’re just about to leave,’ she said.

‘I want the services of your make-up artist,’ said Hamish. He rapidly told her his plan.

‘That sounds exciting. We’ll hang on. I’ll tell them it’s for amateur theatricals.’

At the hotel, he spoke to the manager first. ‘Does Priscilla’s uncle, Bartholomew Smythe, still keep some of his stuff here?’

‘Aye, it’s in a trunk in the basement.’

‘Priscilla,’ lied Hamish, ‘said it would be all right if I borrowed a few things.’

‘Go ahead. Here’s the key to the cellar. It’s the big black steamer trunk in the corner. What are you up to?’

‘I’ll tell you when it’s all over.’

In the cellar, Hamish selected two suits and a tuxedo, two shirts, and two pairs of shoes, grateful that the uncle took the same size in footwear. He left them all in
reception
, then phoned Elspeth and said he was ready. He finally emerged from the ministrations of the make-up artist with black hair, a thin black moustache, a large pair of spectacles, and pads to pump up his cheeks.

Back at the police station, he phoned Willie at the
restaurant
and begged him to take care of Sonsie and Lugs on the following day.

The next day, with his now black hair carefully brushed and then pads making his face look fatter and with a pair of glasses with plain glass, he put on a beautifully cut tweed suit and brogues. The suit looked as if it had been tailored for him. Now for Edinburgh, he thought.

David Harrison stared in amazement at Hamish. ‘I wouldn’t have recognized you! Now, what’s it all about?’

As Hamish told him, his eyes ranged over the other diners. The club was situated in Charlotte Square in the New Town. Expensive men in expensive suits, Rolex watches, well-fed faces, discreet murmur of voices.

‘See anyone?’ asked David.

‘No,’ said Hamish, thinking miserably that it had all been a waste of time and effort.

‘You keep talking about four men. Why don’t you give me their names? I might recognize one of them.’

‘John Sanders, Charles Prosser, Thomas Bromley, and Ferdinand Castle.’

‘One of those names rings a bell. Stop looking so
miserable
and eat your steak and let me think.’

David was a very small man, just five feet tall, with thick brown hair and a clever face: shrewd little black eyes with deep pouches under them, a sharp beak of a nose, and a long mouth.

‘I’ve got it! Bromley. The men’s outfitters. He’s just opened a store in Frederick Street. You know the street. It cuts across Herriot Row.’

‘How can I meet him? I can’t spend too much time away from my station.’

‘Trouble is, I don’t know the man.’

‘Can you find out where his office is?’

‘Wait. I see Johnny Heather over there. He knows
everyone
and everything.’

David was gone only a few minutes.

‘His office, as far as Johnny knows, is in his shop. He doesn’t know the number of the shop but if you take a walk along Frederick Street, he says you can’t miss it. What will you do?’

‘I’ll go and talk to him. Say I own fish farms in Canada and I am bursting with wealth to invest. See what happens. I might need to stay overnight.’

‘I’ve got a wee flat in Abercrombie Place. I’ll take you round there after lunch. You can use it if you’re stuck in town. If the phone rings, don’t answer it. It might be a lady.’

‘Aha, that’s why you’ve got a wee flat in town. Does the wife know?’

‘God forbid.’

When lunch was over, they walked to Abercrombie Place. Hamish had brought an overnight bag just in case. David handed him the keys. ‘Let’s have a look at you again. Hamish, that’s a cheap watch.’

‘So? I’m an eccentric billionaire.’

‘Borrow my Rolex and don’t lose it. It’s an oyster and you could buy a wee house for the price o’ that. Good hunting and let me know how you get on.’

The day was fine. Hamish suddenly thought of Priscilla and wished they were walking together through this most beautiful of cities. Hard to imagine, here in the centre, that there were grim crime-ridden housing estates on the
outside
of the charmed Georgian New Town.

He found the clothing store. The prices were very high. The name
BROMLEY
was in thick gold letters above the door. He pushed open the door and walked in. A male assistant in a kilt of one of the gaudier tartans minced forward. ‘Can I help you, sir?’

‘Just looking around,’ said Hamish. Because of the pads in his cheeks, his voice did not sound like his own.

‘Do look at our new suede jackets,’ urged the assistant. ‘They’re to die for.’

‘I hear you’ve just opened,’ said Hamish. ‘I’m over from Canada and I’m looking for good investments. I heard Mr Bromley was a shrewd businessman. I just had lunch at the Merlin Club and his name was mentioned.’

‘As a matter of fact, Mr Bromley is in his office. I’ll call him.’

After a few minutes, Thomas Bromley bustled in, as fat and cheerful as Hamish remembered him, the smile on his small mouth, however, never reaching his watchful, assessing eyes. Like his assistant, he was dressed in a kilt and ruffled shirt under a velvet jacket. The kilt, reflected Hamish, only looked good when worn by sturdy men with good legs. Chubby as he was, Bromley had stick-like legs.

He rubbed his hands. ‘I hear you are interested in
investing
. Why don’t we go over to the pub and have a chat.’ His eyes swept over Hamish’s expensive suit and flicked a glance at the expensive Rolex on his wrist.

They walked to a pub and entered into the beer-smelling gloom. Hamish ordered whisky and Bromley said he would have the same.

‘And who do I have the honour of addressing?’ he asked.

‘I’m Diarmuid Jenkins the Third,’ said Hamish. ‘My mother was highland and my father was Canadian. I own several fish farms and other businesses. I always regard Scotland as my home country.’

‘That’s fine. Are you interested in the clothing business?’

‘Not really. I was thinking more of something like the restaurant business.’

‘Now, there’s a thing. I happen to have an interest in restaurants. I am the main shareholder in a chain of restaurants.’

‘In Scotland?’

‘Not yet. But thinking of expanding. My company is called Britfood. My restaurants are very successful. Look, a friend of mine has a better head for business than I have. Why don’t we all meet up for dinner at the Merlin Club tonight and discuss things over a good bottle of wine? Say, eight o’clock?’

‘I’d like that,’ said Hamish. He gave a rather vacant laugh. ‘Back home I’ve a good manager although he annoys me by saying that if the running of things was left to me, we’d be broke tomorrow. I want to show him I can do things for myself.’

‘That’s the ticket!’ said Bromley, rubbing his chubby hands. ‘You’ll show him by the time I’m finished with you.’

As he got ready for the evening, Hamish thought he would be glad when the masquerade was over. The pads in his cheeks were uncomfortable and the glasses were pinching his nose. He put on Priscilla’s uncle’s evening suit and set out for the Merlin Club, phoning Willie Lamont before he left to say that he’d been delayed.

He had not been frightened before in his dealings with Bromley, but when he walked into the club and saw Charles Prosser sitting there he suddenly felt a frisson of fear. His highland sixth sense picked up danger. Prosser hailed him, all bluff and hearty and with a crushing
handshake
. Hamish proceeded to play the rather pompous idiot very well, carefully instilling into their brains that his excellent manager was the one with the business acumen. Then Prosser said, if ‘Diarmuid’ didn’t mind, he had some papers to leave at his office. As they approached Prosser’s office, Hamish noticed a burglar alarm box over the door. Bromley poured Hamish a drink from a bar in the corner. At one point, Prosser excused himself and opened a safe in the wall. Hamish had turned on a little tape recorder in his pocket and recorded the clicks.

‘The best idea is for you to come round to my office
tomorrow at noon,’ said Prosser, putting some papers in the safe and shutting it again, ‘and we can all go through the business then. Here’s my card. But tonight’s for fun.’

When they moved to a pub after dinner, Hamish insisted on buying the first round. He went up to the bar and ordered double whiskies for both men and then said to the barman, ‘How would you like to serve me cold tea and keep the price of my drinks for yourself?’

‘Right, mac. You’re my man.’

Hamish then proceeded to pretend he was getting very drunk. He slurred that he was determined to return to Canada with a good portfolio and slam it down on the desk of his manager.