M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dreamer

“Just that he was struck dead further up the beach.”

“Wait a bit,” said Hamish. “That’s odd.”

“What’s odd?”

“He was lying half in, half out of the water, faceup. Someone must have hit him and he fell backwards. So they’d drag the body down to the water by the ankles, hoping to dump him in the loch. Probably the murderer heard the boys coming and fled. Did forensic find any drag marks?”

Jimmy groaned. “They’ve got a rugby match tonight and cleared off fast. It’s been high tide since then.”

“You know, Jimmy, I watch these forensic programmes on TV. Whether fiction or fact, the labs always seem to have attractive, hardworking women. Why are we stuck with a lot of boozy men?”

“They’re all staunch members of the Freemasons, and so is Daviot.”

“Why couldn’t that lot have joined some club or cult that bans liquor? So we can assume that whoever Hal met, it was someone he knew and someone he had no reason to fear. Maybe a woman.”

“Maybe Jock. Maybe that wee notebook of Hal’s contained something about Jock. That’s it for the day. We’ll start again tomorrow.”

“Has Daviot been around?”

“He came briefly and fussed and hummed and hawed and then took himself off again.”

Outside the unit, Robin said she would go back to Strathbane and get an early night.

Hamish fed and walked the dog and cat and was just wondering what to eat himself when Betty Barnard walked in.

“Unless it’s police business,” said Hamish sharply, “I shouldn’t be talking to you.”

“It is in a way. I know you’ve found out about Jock’s previous charges of assault. I wanted to talk to you about him.”

“So talk.”

“Look, Hamish, why don’t I drive us to that French restaurant in Strathbane for dinner and I can fill you in? Come on. It is police business we’re discussing.”

“I shouldn’t be doing this,” said Hamish, “but, och, why not? Who’s to know?”

Betty talked on the road about how Dora had tricked Jock into marriage and how she had become paranoiac, believing Jock had an affair, all of which, Hamish thought uneasily, he knew already.

“I know it looks bad for Jock, but he’s not really a violent man. The provocation in both cases was great.”

Hamish suddenly remembered he had promised to talk to Elspeth. He took out his mobile and dialled the hotel, only to be told by Priscilla she had already left.

“Tell her I’ve been called out on police duty,” said Hamish.

“What was that about?” asked Betty.

“I was supposed to see Elspeth this evening, and I forgot.”

“Poor Hamish. Us ladies won’t stop chasing you.”

He glanced sideways at her as she competendy negotiated the one-track roads. Did she fancy him? She was so warm and easy-going and undemanding. He could be happy with her. But would she be happy being married to a highland policeman? Maybe, but only if he relocated to Glasgow.

She drove into Strathbane and headed for the docks. “It still looks the usual smelly run-down place it’s always been,” commented Hamish.

“It’s all due for regeneration, and the owner of the restaurant decided to get in first while property is still at rock-bottom prices.”

“Is he French?”

“He calls himself Pierre Lachasse.”

Hamish looked amused. “As I recall, that’s a famous cemetery in Paris.”

“I thought there was something familiar about it. Here we are.”

The restaurant was called Highland France. Inside, it was tastefully done up with wood panelling, plants, and curtains on brass rails. The maître d’ took them to their table and handed them enormous menus.

“Stick to the set menu,” said Betty. “I’m not being cheap, but it’s every bit as good as anything on the à la carte.”

They ordered snails to start and then salmon in a fennel sauce.

Hamish had never had snails before. He thought they were quite tasty, although a bit like garlic rubber.

He looked around the restaurant and then suddenly stiffened. “Well, I neffer did,” he gasped.

“What?”

“Don’t look now, but the boss, Peter Daviot, has just come in with Detective Mackenzie.”

“What’s odd about that?”

“I don’t know what Mrs. Daviot would have to say about it. Oh, good, they’ve been put at a table where they can’t see us.”

What on earth was Daviot up to? wondered Hamish. And Robin? She was wearing a little black dress cut low enough to expose the tops of two excellent breasts. Her hair had just been done and rioted in curls around her well-made-up face.

“We’re going to have a long meal,” said Hamish. “I want to wait until they leave.”

Betty grinned. “Suits me. Tell me more about the case.”

But Hamish would not be drawn. Although he felt in his heart it was ridiculous, Betty was on the list of suspects. So he talked of old cases, spinning out the meal until he saw Daviot and Robin leave. He gloomily noticed that Daviot’s face was lit up, and as he helped Robin on with her coat, he gazed down at her with adoring eyes.

The ambitious little minx, thought Hamish. I don’t believe she cares for him one little bit.

He was tired and slept on the way home, only wakening when Betty drew up outside the police station. Betty leaned forward and planted a warm kiss on his cheek. “If only this wretched murder business were over, Hamish. Then we could really see more of each other.”

Hamish went into the police station, his heart singing, until he saw a note on the kitchen table in Elspeth’s handwriting. It simply said, “Bastard.”

“I don’t want any more women in my life at the moment,” said Hamish as the dog and cat followed him into the bedroom. “I’ve enough on my plate.”

But little did he know, there was going to be one more.

∨ Death of a Dreamer ∧

9

How happy could I be with either ,

Were t’other dear charmer away!

—John Gay

“You’ve lost that look,” complained Jock, working busily on Priscilla’s portrait.

“What look?” asked Priscilla.

“The distant one, the remote one. What are you thinking about?”

“Nothing in particular.”

“Didn’t look that way,” grumbled Jock.

Priscilla had been thinking about Hamish Macbeth. In London, it had been easy to dismiss him from her mind. But up here when he seemed to be pursued by other women, it was hard not to think about him.

Elspeth had confided in her that she had had an affair with Hamish and that she had presented him with an ultimatum – marriage or nothing else. Priscilla had been amazed at the bitter jealousy that admission had caused her. Now there was Betty Barnard.

Jock interrupted her thoughts again. “When I’ve finished this,” he said tentatively, “would you consider buying it?”

“I’ll think about it,” said Priscilla. So even this artist hasn’t got any designs on me other than money, she thought. Hamish has nothing to worry about.

♦

Hamish was roused from his breakfast chores by a knock at the door. He assumed it was Robin and was wondering whether to say anything about having seen her last night. But then he would have to confess that he had been in the restaurant with Betty, and she would give him a stern lecture on socialising with a suspect.

But it was a strange woman who stood on the doorstep. “I am Mrs. Addenfest,” she said.

“Come in,” said Hamish, standing aside. She walked past him into the kitchen, a subtle perfume wafting about her.

She sat down at the kitchen table and crossed a pair of excellent legs. Her hair was an expensive dyed blonde – no brass, but a sort of silvery gold. She had high cheekbones, a full mouth, a straight little nose, and calculating brown eyes which betrayed that she was actually much older than she looked. Hamish guessed she had gone in for an expensive facelift to match the expensive hair. She was dressed in Fifth Avenue’s idea of suitable fashion for the Highlands of Scotland: a tweed jacket with patches at the elbows and a brown velvet collar and that King tweed skirt, sheer stockings, and brogues the colour of chestnuts.