M Beaton: Death of a Valentine

“Och, come on, laddie!” said Jimmy when he had finished. “He’s a respectable man wi’ an impeccable background.”

“What is his background?” asked Hamish. “You told me you had checked all my suspects.”

“He was in special forces in Northern Ireland.”

“Was he now? Jimmy, what better place to find out all about bomb making? Didn’t you connect the dots? You should ha’ told me about this. I want a warrant.”

“You’ll need a lot more evidence to get a warrant than a look on a man’s face months ago.”

“I’m going over to have a word wi’ him.”

“Well, mind how you go and if the shit hits the fan and he starts howling to Daviot, I’ll swear blind it’s the first I’ve heard of it.”

At the town hall, Hamish asked Jessie Cormack where her boss was. “He’s gone to Edinburgh with his wife,” said Jessie. “There’s some function or other they have to attend.”

Hamish went back outside and climbed into his Land Rover. He had to get inside Jamie’s house.

Dressed in black, he left his police station that night at two in the morning. He had borrowed an old Volvo from Iain at the garage, not wanting the Land Rover to be seen anywhere near the Baxters’ house.

It was a dark, cold, misty night. He parked the Volvo some distance away and made his way along a lane at the back of the Baxters’ house. The garden gate was locked but he climbed nimbly over it and dropped down into the garden. He had not noticed any sign of a burglar alarm on his previous visits to Cora. He opened a small backpack, took out his forensic coveralls, and put them on, even covering his boots. He did not want any trace of him to be found in the house.

He took out a ring of skeleton keys and got to work on the back door, hoping it was not bolted on the other side. Householders often did not realise how effective a bolt could be.

At last the lock clicked open and he slid quietly into the kitchen. His pencil torch flickered over the sterile kitchen’s gleaming surfaces. He made his way from the kitchen into a square hall. He looked briefly into the downstairs living room and dining room before making his way quietly up the stairs. He hoped Jamie had a study.

He found it beside the main bedroom. Thanking his stars the study was at the back of the house, he sat down at Jamie’s desk and began to go through the drawers. The bottom one was locked. He worked steadily with a skeleton key, not wanting to force the drawer. His heart sank when all he found were pornographic magazines and a bottle of whisky.

He flicked the torchlight around the room. There was a small wall safe. If there is anything incriminating, it will be in there, thought Hamish. But how to get the combination?

He searched the desk again, hoping that Jamie might have written the combination somewhere. He took out all the drawers and looked at the back. Nothing. He replaced the drawers and switched on Jamie’s computer. There was a file for addresses and telephone numbers. He opened it up. He recognised Annie’s home number and work number. He studied all the names and was about to give up when he saw a name in the middle-McPeter. Peter was slang for “safe.” Beside it were six numbers with the area code for Braikie. He knew a lot of people tried to keep numbers secure by making them look like a phone number. He scribbled the number in a small notebook and then went over to the safe.

He moved the dial, squinting down at the numbers he had written. He let out a low whistle of satisfaction when the door swung open. Inside were various letters from building contractors. It seemed as if Jamie had been giving contracts to friends for a payoff. There was a manila envelope. He pulled it out and took it over to the desk. Inside was a smaller envelope containing photographs. He slid them out. They were of Annie, either naked or wearing fishnet stockings and a suspender belt. He put them to one side and studied the rest of the contents. There was a book on bomb making.

He went back to the safe and pulled out a metal box. He took it to the desk and opened it. Inside was a cutthroat razor and bottles of chemicals. The fool, thought Hamish. The vain murderous fool! He was proud of what he had done. He probably sat in his office, gloating over his trophies.

Hamish spread all his finds on the desk, risked switching on the lights, and, taking out a small, powerful digital camera, began to photograph the evidence. Then he carefully put everything back the way it was and locked the safe.

Mr. Patel was roused at seven in the morning by Hamish hammering on the door of his flat above the shop. “What is it, Hamish?” he asked.

“I need to use that machine in the shop for printing photos.”

“At this time o’ the day?”

“It iss top secret.”

“Oh, come round to the front and I’ll let you in.”

In the shop, Hamish slid the memory card into the machine and then waited while the photos were printed off. He had told Mr. Patel not to look.

“I hope that all did ye some good,” said Mr. Patel when he had finished. “I just hope it isnae your holiday photos.”

“I’ve forgotten what a holiday’s like,” said Hamish. “I’ll take a packet o’ these manila envelopes.”

Hamish went back to the police station and, still wearing latex gloves, wrote SUPERINTENDENT DAVIOT in block capitals on an envelope, addressed it, and then put all the photographic evidence inside. He typed out a note: “Evidence from Jamie Baxter’s safe.” He steamed off an old stamp and put it on the envelope.

He couldn’t bear to post it and have to wait until it was delivered, fearing that Jamie would destroy everything before a search warrant could be issued. He went through to his bedroom, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the faint smell of sex from his bed, and rummaged under the bed where he kept a box with some disguises. He selected a black wig, glasses, a black moustache, and a cap. He changed out of his regulation boots and put on an old pair of trainers.

Lugs and Sonsie looked at him hopefully but he said, “Be good. I won’t be long.” The animals eyed him curiously as he put on his disguise.

He opened the kitchen door and peered out. Nobody was around. He got into the Volvo and drove off to Strathbane. He parked some way away from police headquarters and then walked towards the building.

To his delight, he saw a postman just getting out of his van. As the postman walked towards the building, carrying a pile of mail fastened with a rubber band, Hamish called to him. “You’ve dropped one.”

He handed the postman the envelope. “I don’t know how that could have happened,” said the postman. “But thanks.”

Hamish went back to Lochdubh, stopping on the way to strip off his disguise and the clothes. He left the car at the garage in the village. Back at the police station, he got an old oil drum out of the shed and put the disguise in it. He went in, changed into his uniform, got his forensic suit and boots, and threw them in as well. He added the clothes he had been wearing when he had broken into the Baxters’ home. On a sudden impulse he ran indoors and stripped his bed and stuffed the sheets and pillowslips on top. Then he remembered the memory card from his camera. He added that as well. He poured petrol over the lot and set it on fire.

He was suddenly exhausted, and that exhaustion brought back unhappy memories of waking up next to Josie. When everything in the oil drum had burnt down to black ash, he went indoors. He put his head down on the kitchen table and fell asleep.

He was awakened three hours later by the shrilling of the phone. He struggled to his feet and went to answer it. It was Jimmy. “Hamish, we’ve got evidence on Jamie Baxter. We’re heading over there with a warrant. Want to be in at the kill?”