Chapter Seven
Down to Gehenna or up to the Throne,
He travels the fastest who travels alone.
—Rudyard Kipling
It was a slow process before the body was finally identified as that of Betty Close.
Jimmy Anderson called one evening to give Hamish the news.
“I chust knew it!” cried Hamish. “I guessed she must ha’ been listening in when I was telling Elspeth about the idea I had that the death of yon prostitute was somehow linked to the murders.”
“We’re not going to get anywhere with that, Hamish.”
“Why?”
“Blair is jumping on the idea. ‘What proof?’ he asks Daviot. ‘Jist some intuition of some highland loon.’ Daviot is anxious not to tread on the toes of another police force. Strathclyde police are investigating, he says, and they are very efficient and that’s the end of that.”
“I swear to God,” said Hamish passionately, “that one of those four men is involved, if not all.”
“Hamish, calm down. Ever since that business with your friend Angela, you’ve been turning your mind away from the locals.”
“Maybe,” said Hamish with sudden mildness. “Could be.”
After Jimmy had left, Hamish phoned Angela. “I’m thinking of taking a wee trip tomorrow,” he began. But Angela interrupted crossly, saying, “No, I cannot keep an eye on your beasties. I am due in Edinburgh tomorrow. More discussion on the launch of the book.”
“Now, there’s an odd thing,” said Hamish. “I was just thinking of a trip to Edinburgh myself. Could you give me a lift?”
“Yes, I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be leaving at eight in the morning.”
“That’s grand. I’ll be outside your house then. We can share the driving.”
Hamish then phoned Willie Lamont at the Italian restaurant and asked if he would periodically check on the dog and cat the following day.
“I’ll do that,” said Willie.
“And I’ll leave food for them, so don’t be feeding them. Lugs is getting a bit fat.”
“Aye, they’re a rare pair of goormitts.”
“Gourmets.”
“Whateffer.”
It was a lovely morning when Hamish walked along the waterfront to Angela’s home. A delicate mist was rising from the loch, where the calm waters were broken by a couple of seals.
He wished with all his heart that the murders could be solved and leave him free to return to his old ways of lazing around and enjoying the scenery.
Angela was already sitting in her car. “New car?” asked Hamish, sitting in the front seat of the Ford Escort.
“New secondhand,” said Angela, moving off.
The Currie sisters watched them go from behind their lace curtains. “You don’t think…?” asked Jessie.
“I wouldn’t put anything past thon policeman,” said Nessie. “He’s a philanderer.” They decided to go along to Patel’s shop and spread a bit of speculative gossip.
Angela’s publisher was fortuitously situated in the Royal Mile. Because the famous street was a pedestrian area, Angela found a car park near the Cowgate and they walked together up the High Street, as the Royal Mile was also called. Angela’s publisher had offices in the Grassmarket. Hamish agreed to meet her at four in the afternoon. Angela had said she would be having a working lunch in her publisher’s offices. Hamish, as he headed for the Canongate, found he was very hungry. He found a small trendy café which, unfortunately for his rather debased food tastes, turned out to be vegetarian. He reminded himself severely that it was time he switched to eating healthy food and ordered vegetable soup followed by cauliflower and cheese.
Then he left the café and found the address where the prostitute had been murdered.
He walked into the close and then up to the tenement. Like Betty, he found that everyone seemed to be out except for a man who lived under the prostitute’s flat.
Hamish produced his warrant card and then asked politely, “May I come in?”
It was the same balding, black-eyed man that Betty had seen. But Hamish did not know that.
“No,” he said curtly. “I’m busy.”
Hamish raised his voice to a near shout. “I am investigating the murder of Betty Close.”
The man grabbed his arm and practically pulled him into the flat. “All right, all right,” he said.
Hamish walked past him into a narrow corridor. He shut the door. “In here,” he said. He opened a door into a living room. It was a strangely sterile room: black three-piece leather suite, low glass coffee table, one huge flat-screen TV and stereo system, but no books or pictures.
“What is your name?” asked Hamish.
“John Dean. Why aren’t you in uniform?”
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I happened to be visiting Edinburgh and thought I would make some enquiries. Did you speak to Betty Close?”
“Who’s she?”
Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Man, it’s been in all the papers. She was a television researcher.”
“Oh, I mind. The wee lassie that was found in the Gareloch. Shouldn’t you be over there?”
“You haven’t answered my question. And there was only a head-and-shoulders picture of her published in the newspapers, so how do you know she was wee?”
“It’s just an expression.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Dean?”
“I’m retired.”
“From what?”
“I owned a disco, Dancing Dirty, down in the Grassmarket.”
“You’re in your… fifties? Bit young to retire if it was your own business.”
He sighed. “I wish you’d mind yours. I was bought out.”
“Who bought you out?”
“Scots Entertainment PLC.”
“And where will I find them?”
“Enough!” he shouted. “Either arrest me and charge me with something or get the hell out of here.”
“You are behaving very suspiciously.”
“Get out!”
Hamish left the flats, went into the nearest shop, and asked if he could look at an Edinburgh telephone directory. Scots Entertainment had offices in Leith Walk. He set off in that direction.
He finally located it with some difficulty because the offices were not actually in Leith Walk itself but in a tenement in a side street. There was a brass plaque on the wall with the name of the company. Hamish walked up the old stone stairs and located the offices on the second floor. He pushed open the door, went in, and blinked at the vision sitting behind the reception desk.
The receptionist was an exquisite blonde wearing a simple black dress and pearls. She had blue eyes in a smooth unlined face. She opened her mouth which was delicately painted pink and said, “Yeah, whit dae ye want?” in a guttural Glaswegian accent.
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. May I be having a wee word wi’ your boss?”
“Naw. He’s on holiday in the Maldives.”
“And who is standing in for him?”
“Naebody, copper. Push off.”
“You sound as if you’d had experience with the police,” said Hamish, “otherwise you wouldn’t be so damn rude.”
“I’m no’ paid to be nice. Take a hike.”
Hamish went to a café across Leith Walk where he could sit at the window and get a clear view of the entrance to the offices. The day wore on but no one appeared. Finally, he glanced at his watch and realised that if he did not hurry he would be late to meet Angela. He would need to return home and see if he could get Jimmy interested enough to investigate the background of Scots Entertainment.
As he started walking towards the Royal Mile, he had an uncanny feeling that he was being followed. He whipped around several times but could see no one sinister. He speeded up until he was running fast, threading his way agilely through the crowd. He dived into a doorway, fished out a small camera, and waited. Eventually, he saw a burly man hurrying past. Hamish ran after him, past him, swung around and took a photograph of him, and then ran on. The man pounded after him but was no match for Hamish’s speed, for Hamish had won many prizes as a hill runner. He lost the man in the closes off the Mile and then circled back to the parking place where Angela was already waiting for him.
“You’re all sweaty, Hamish,” said Angela.
“I was running late,” said Hamish, settling himself into the passenger seat. “I wish you’d get a bigger car, Angela. My knees are up to my chin.”
“Then get your own car.”
“How did you get on?”
As they drove off, Angela talked excitedly about her working lunch. Hamish only half listened. He would get that photograph developed and see if anything like him turned up in the mug shots in Strathbane.
Late that evening, Hamish sat in a pub in Strathbane, showed Jimmy the photograph he had printed off his digital camera at Patel’s, and told him about his day.
“And how am I going to explain your unauthorised visit to Edinburgh?” complained Jimmy.
“Anonymous letter?”
“Saying what exactly?”
“That Scots Entertainment is a front for prostitution.”
“And is it?”
“I have a hunch…”
“Oh, spare me your highland hunches,” groaned Jimmy. “All right, I’ll try it. When can you let me have it?”
“Now,” said Hamish. “I typed this on one of the old typewriters at the school. I want leave, Jimmy, and urgently. Could you say my aunt in Dornoch is ill?”
“Have you an aunt in Dornoch?”
“She died last year so that makes her as ill as you can get.”
“You’re going to Guildford,” said Jimmy accusingly.
“Well, chust let’s say, you don’t know that.”
Hamish took the long road to Guildford in Surrey early the next morning, after pleading with Willie Lamont again to look after his pets. He flew from Inverness to Gatwick, hired a car with a fleeting thought for his dwindling bank balance, checked his maps, and set out for Guildford. The four men lived in a builder’s estate called Surrey Loan on the outskirts of the town. The houses looked expensive but sterile and devoid of character, for despite their size, they were all remarkably alike.
The men would not tell him anything, but perhaps they were hopefully still out at work and their wives would say something.
He drew a blank at Ferdinand Castle’s home. No one was at home. Elspeth had told him that the wives had refused to speak to her. Two streets away, Mrs. Bromley, thin and acidic, slammed the door in his face. Through the window, he saw her dialling a number on the telephone. He got the same treatment from Mrs. Sanders.
Wearily, he trudged on to the home of Charles Prosser. No one replied. He was just about to turn away when a woman in a four-wheel drive turned into the short drive.
She got out exposing a long length of leg.
“Mrs. Prosser?” asked Hamish.
Her eyes behind blue contact lenses surveyed the tall policeman with the flaming red hair.
“That’s me,” she said huskily.
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth and I wanted to ask you a few questions.”
In her high heels, she was almost as tall as Hamish. Everything that could be done to maintain a woman’s appearance from cosmetic surgery to dyed hair had been achieved and had produced a glamorous effect.
“I say, how exciting. Are you going to put me in handcuffs?”
“Not I,” said Hamish.
Her collagen-plumped lips expanded in a smile. “Pity. Come inside and we’ll have a drink or something.”
In the hall, she shrugged off her coat. She was wearing a low-necked blouse in a leopardskin print with very tight jeans. She bent over in front of Hamish to slip off her high-heeled shoes, revealing two very round, very firm breasts. Silicone, thought Hamish cynically. He remembered from the notes he had read that her name was Sandra and that she was fifty-two years old.
“Come through to the kitchen,” she said, leading the way.
The kitchen was large and square and full of every labour-saving device.
“Coffee, or something stronger?”
“Coffee would be grand.”
The phone rang shrilly. “Probably some bore,” said Sandra. “Ignore it.”
Probably Mrs. Bromley, thought Hamish.
When the coffee was served, they sat at the kitchen table. “Now,” said Sandra, “why are you here?”
“I was visiting an aunt in Guildford and thought I’d check up on a few points. You’ve been asked this before, but on the night of the murder of Charles Davenport, Mrs. Bromley and her husband, Mrs. Castle and her husband, John Sanders and Mrs. Sanders, and you and husband Charles were all having dinner together. Here?”
“Well, we met here for drinks and then we all went on to a restaurant.”
“It doesn’t say anything about that,” said Hamish, taking out a sheaf of notes and scanning them.
“Well, we did.”
“What is the name of the restaurant?”
“Timothy’s. It’s near the town hall.”
“So lots of people would see you there?”
“Timothy himself can vouch for us.”
“What time was this?”
“About seven in the evening.”
Not time for any of them to get up to the Highlands and back. He realised one of her stockinged feet was caressing his ankle. Should he? In the line of duty? An image of his former love Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, cool as a mountain stream, rose before his eyes.
He stood up abruptly.
“Thank you for your time, Mrs. Prosser.”
“Is that all? Don’t you want to stay, copper?”
“People to meet, things to do,” gabbled Hamish, heading rapidly for the front door.
He had no sooner gone than the phone began to ring again. It was Mrs. Bromley. “There’s some highland copper snooping around,” she said.
“Yes,” said Sandra. “I know.”
“You didn’t speak to him, did you?”
Sandra hesitated only a moment. “No, of course not.”
Hamish found Timothy’s restaurant and asked to speak to the owner. Timothy was squat and balding. He had a heavy accent. Hamish decided he might be Greek or Turkish. To Hamish’s questions he replied testily that he had already gone over everything with the police. So Sandra had lied. Why? The police knew about the restaurant.
What a wasted trip, thought Hamish. He had walked a few steps away from the restaurant when a thin, sallow-faced young man with thick oily hair grabbed his arm. “I want to sell you a bit of info,” he whispered.
Now, thought Hamish, a proper copper would tell him it was his duty to report what he knew and drag him off to the Guildford police. On the other hand, he was not supposed to be in Guildford.
They walked along the street. “How much?” asked Hamish.
“A hundred.”
“Fifty or nothing,” said Hamish, noticing that the pupils of the man’s eyes were like pinpoints.
“All right. Give it to me.”
“There’s a café ower there,” said Hamish. “Let’s sit down. Information first. And if it’s not worth anything, nothing is what you’re going to get.”
The café was of the kind with a bewildering array of expensively priced coffee. Hamish ordered an Americana and his companion, a cappuccino.
“What have you got?” asked Hamish, “First of all, your name?”
“Stefan Loncar.”
“So what information do you have for me?”
“That bastard, Timothy, sacked me last week. Says if I talk to the police, he’d cut my balls off. But I’m going back to Zagreb tomorrow. I need money.”
“So what have you got?”
“Those four men and their wives, the ones the police were asking about, they dined that evening in a private room upstairs.”
Hamish felt a flicker of excitement.
“Were they all there?”
“There were the four of them. I recognised the wives. But the men were all wearing funny masks.”
“What! Why?”
“They were laughing and said they’d just come from a fancy dress party.”
“But people who dined in the restaurant on the same night couldn’t remember seeing them. Surely they would remember four men in masks.”
“There’s a back stair leading from the car park which goes up to the private room. The police were happy to take Timothy’s word for it. Thomas Bromley paid for the dinner with his credit card. Timothy showed that to the police as proof but he said nothing about the private room. Where’s my money?”
“Aren’t you worried? One of them could be a murderer.”
“I’m off to Zagreb in the morning.”
Hamish took out a battered wallet and extracted two twenty-pound notes and a ten. Stefan snatched them and ran out of the café. Hamish hurried after him but when he got outside, Stefan appeared to have disappeared into thin air.
The four wives got together for drinks that afternoon. “Did you tell your husbands?” asked Sandra.
“Not yet,” said Mary Bromley.
“Don’t let’s,” said Sandra. “It’s not safe. I think we should all keep quiet.”
Reluctantly, the others agreed.
Hamish Macbeth walked round to the back of the restaurant and studied the staircase. There was no CCTV camera. There was now possibly a fifth man involved, one who perhaps took the place of whoever it was had gone to Scotland to murder Captain Davenport.
He experienced a feeling of relief. One of the four must have committed the murder, which left the locals clear of suspicion. Now he had to head north and try to pass on what he had learned without betraying that he had strayed out of his area.
As soon as he got back to Lochdubh, he called Jimmy and told him to come to the police station in the morning. He locked up his sleepy hens, refused to feed Lugs who was getting fat even though the dog banged his feeding bowl on the floor, showered, and went to bed. But he did not fall asleep immediately. If Sandra Prosser told her husband of his visit, then Charles Prosser might complain to the Guildford police, and then one highland police sergeant would be in trouble. But if one of the men was a murderer and the others were hiding the fact and colluding with him, then Hamish doubted the Guildford police would learn anything. What about those masks, though? Britain had more spy cameras on its streets than any other country. Surely the men had been questioned about the masks.
Jimmy arrived at ten in the morning, his blue eyes bloodshot and his clothes looking as if they had been slept in.
“Hard night?” asked Hamish.
“Don’t want to talk about it,” mumbled Jimmy. “What gives?”
Hamish described what he had found in Guildford. Jimmy groaned and clutched his head. “What am I to do with all this?” he demanded. “Poaching on Guildford’s territory.”
“Never mind. I’ve got a nice anonymous letter all written out for you. I want you to phone Guildford and the police at Gatwick airport and stop Stefan Loncar from getting on that plane.”
“He may already have gone.”
“I checked. It’s due to leave at noon today.”
“Right. Give me the letter. I hope there’s no fingerprints and no DNA.”
“Of course not. Your name’s been mentioned in the press so I put it on the envelope. Off you go. Oh, there’s one thing. Why weren’t the police suspicious about those masks the men were wearing?”
“It never came up. The camera focussed on the front of the restaurant wasn’t working. And if, as you say, they went up a back stair, it doesn’t matter anyway.”
When he had gone, Hamish switched on his computer and studied the little information he had about the four men. Thomas Bromley ran a chain of clothing stores. But did he have other businesses? Was Timothy’s one of his? If that was the case, it would explain why Timothy was prepared to lie for him. Timothy had claimed in a statement to Guildford police that he was the owner. Hamish Googled a list of Guildford restaurants, and his hazel eyes gleamed. Timothy’s was not listed, and yet he had a feeling in his bones that it was owned or part owned by one of the men. He needed a business expert to search company directors and find what other companies might belong to the men and if they had any connection with Scotland.
Prosser’s supermarkets were called Foodies but all of them were in the south of England. There was no connection, then, with Scotland.
Hamish had a feeling that the captain had actually got much more money out of one or all of them for some scam, more money than they claimed to have lost. The lawyers’ letters from the four had all been dated last year. Maybe the captain had come up with a get-rich-quick scheme for them. Persuading them that it was so good that they could not only recoup their losses but gain a fortune. From people like Angela and Edie and Caro, he had gathered that the captain had been superb as a con artist.
He went out for a walk and met Angela Brodie on the waterfront. Her thin face was alight with excitement. “Hamish, my publisher thinks my book might be nominated for the Haggart Prize.”
“That’s grand, Angela. What’s it about?”
“Oh, the usual this and that.”
“Like what?”
“Oh, Hamish, literary books are so hard to describe.”
“Try me.”
“Oh, there’s Mrs. Wellington. I must ask her about something.”
Hamish studied her retreating figure suspiciously. He suddenly felt sure that Angela’s novel was based on Lochdubh, maybe a thinly disguised Lochdubh. He was in the clear because writers only brought policemen into detective stories, and detective writers never got literary awards.
He rubbed his face and neck with midge repellent because the day was soft and damp and those Scottish mosquitoes were out in force. A thin line of mist lay across the forest on the opposite bank. Two seals struggled onto a rock by the beach and stared at him with big round eyes. He turned away. A little part of his brain was superstitious and believed the old stories that the seals were dead people who had come back.
He collected his dog and cat and drove to Drim. He let them out on the beach to play and went to Milly’s house.
Hamish frowned when he recognised Tam’s car parked outside. He didn’t quite trust Tam or, for that matter, any other reporter except Elspeth. He wanted to phone Elspeth and ask her if she knew any business expert but—remembering the fate of Betty Close—decided he might be putting her in danger.
Milly answered the door. Her face was flushed and her eyes bright. “Come in, Hamish. You’ll find Tam in the kitchen.”
“I would like a word with you in private. Did your husband leave any business papers? Did the police take them away?”
“Apart for bank statements and bills and things like that, there wasn’t much else.”
Tam appeared in the doorway. Hamish had a sudden idea. “Tam, do you know anyone expert enough to dig into company registers and find maybe hidden companies?”
“Why?”
“I can’t be telling you the noo but if you help me, you’ll be the first to get the news if anything breaks.”
Tam scratched one of his large ears. “I mind there’s a retired businessman up at Craskie in a wee white cottage called Cruachan just on the left as you approach the village. He’s called John McFee.”
“Thanks. I’ll try him.”
Hamish drove off and took the coast road to Craskie. He spotted the cottage easily. An elderly gentleman with white hair was working in his front garden.
“Mr. McFee,” called Hamish.
“Aye, that’s me.”
He straightened up from weeding, groaned, and clutched his back. “Age is a terrible thing, laddie. How can I help you? I can’t be frightened at the sight of a policeman because there’s simply no one left in my life I care about.”
Will I be like this some day? wondered Hamish. Will there be anyone in my life to care for me?
He stood with one foot raised and his mouth slightly open.
“Don’t stand there, looking glaikit,” said John. “Come ben the house. The midges out here are eating me alive.”
Hamish followed him in to a book-lined living room. There was a peat fire on the hearth and several good pieces of furniture. “Sit at the table at the window,” ordered John, “and I’ll get us some coffee. I don’t like these coffee tables. Can’t stand bending over to drink coffee. Listen to that. The wind’s rising. I hope it blows those damn midges out to sea. Do midges have a natural predator?”
“I don’t know,” said Hamish. “I’ve never really thought about it.”
“I’ll get the coffee.”
Hamish took off his hat and put it on the floor at his feet. The cottage was on a slight rise and afforded a good view of the sea. A patch of blue sky was forming to the west, and seagulls wheeled and dived over the rising waves.
His eyes began to droop and he fell suddenly asleep, waking only when John put a tray of coffee and biscuits on the table.
“Sorry,” said Hamish. “A bad night.”
“So what brings you?” asked John, pouring coffee. There was no evidence of central heating, and the fire gave out little heat. He was wearing two sweaters and thick trousers.
“I need your expertise,” said Hamish. “You’ll have heard about the murders.”
“Yes, bad business.”
“I want to tell you what I know about four men and then hope you can somehow find out which companies they own, particularly if one of them has an umbrella company that covers the fact that he owns a restaurant in Guildford called Timothy’s.”
“Won’t your headquarters have experts?”
“Not that I know of. There’s another thing. The four men sent lawyers’ letters to the captain, but the demands for repayment did not involve a great deal of money. To have killed Captain Davenport in such a vicious rage leads me to believe that he scammed a great deal of money for some venture out of all of them. If you agree, I will arrange some form of payment for you from Strathbane.”
John sighed. “I’m so bored these days, I would do it for nothing.”
“I want you to be very careful,” warned Hamish. “Don’t get close to any of these men or their business. One of them, I am sure, is a murderer.”
Back at the police station, Hamish waited and waited to hear from Jimmy. “I’m coming right over,” said the detective. “Blair’s furious. He wanted it to be one of the villagers. He says the letter is just mad spite but Daviot has sent it off to Guildford. See you soon.”
Jimmy arrived just as the wind had risen to a full gale. “How you can live here beats me,” he complained. “Why is it so cold? It’s summer.”
“Global cooling,” said Hamish. “What have you got?”
“First of all, something bad. Stefan Loncar was booked on the noon plane to Zagreb but didn’t turn up. They searched his flat. He had packed up but there was no sign of him.”
“Someone must have spied me talking to him,” said Hamish.
“Maybe. The four suspects have been brought in for questioning. They lawyered up immediately. It’s English law, see? They don’t need to wait until we allow them lawyers.”
“What about the masks? And what fancy dress party were they going to?”
“They now say there wasn’t any party. They’d been watching the Iraq inquiry and they had these Tony Blair masks and thought it would be a bit of a hoot to wear them. They are all members of the Rotary Club and the Freemasons and you name it. Guildford said they had to let them go.”
Hamish told him about his visit to John McFee.
“Now, there’s a thing,” said Jimmy. “I wanted to hire an expert but Blair blocked it. Says we haven’t the funds.”
“Well, if McFee comes up with anything, you’d better get your chequebook out,” said Hamish. “I not only want to find out how much Davenport tricked them out of, I want to know if they have any connection to Scotland, Edinburgh in particular. Oh, and did they question Timothy again?”
“Yes, he swears blind the four men are regular customers and salt of the earth. His real name is Andreas Gristedes. Greek by birth. How soon can your expert come up with anything?”
Hamish groaned. “Probably a month or so. It isn’t the telly where some geek flicks through a computer and says, ‘Aha!’ Why haven’t you asked for whisky?”
“Drying out.”
“About time.”
“So we have to wait.”