M.C. Beaton - Death of a Dustman

Geordie, thanks to Hamish sticking to his story that he had ordered Geordie to bring down the helicopter, was a free man. His case had been heard at the sheriff’s court in Strathbane, and Hamish had testified that Geordie had been only acting on instructions.

Hamish had been given a rocket by the sheriff for irresponsible policing.

Clarry had worked out his notice, but was still living at the police station until such time as he considered it decent to move in with Martha.

Hamish fished the blackmailing letters out of the bottom drawer of his desk and decided to put them in the stove. The weather had turned chilly and blustery. He had lit the wood fire in the kitchen and was waiting for the wood to catch before he dropped the letters in when the phone rang.

He put the letters on the kitchen table and went to answer it. It was Jimmy Anderson at the other end of the line, sounding very excited. “He’s broken, Hamish.”

“Who?”

“The pilot, Ian Simpson. He says he wants to do a deal.”

“Oh, aye? And you don’t do deals.”

“No, but we promised him a favourable trial.”

“So what has he said?”

“He says that Ionides killed Fergus. He told Fergus he would meet him up on the grazings and pay him ten thousand pounds. He bashed his head in and then got Ian, the pilot, to go back with him in the middle of the night. They wrapped the body in one of the sheets from the hotel. They were going to dump it in the loch when they got as far as the Curries’ cottage. Ionides said, “Let’s dump the bastard in that bin. I’m sick of carrying it.””

“And then they did Angus?”

“There’s the odd thing. He stubbornly says that Angus never came near Ionides. But he says Ionides was trading drugs. That was the real reason for the hotel so far north. They thought it would be an excellent, quiet landing place. There was a raid on all his hotels during the night and they found drugs in the cellar of the one in Aberfoyle, so they’ve arrested the brother. Miss Stathos is crying and wailing and sticking to her story that she knew nothing about it. Mind you, she says he was fanatical about fishing, any kind of fishing, and was determined to get the Tommel Castle Hotel. Things look better for you, Hamish. You’re to attend a special meeting this afternoon at two o’clock.”

“Another dressing down,” said Hamish.

“Aye, but take my advice, laddie, and look meek and humble.”

After he had rung off, Hamish went into the kitchen and looked thoughtfully at the letters. Surely Ionides had killed Angus. It couldn’t be anyone else. But he picked up the package and carried it through to the office and put it back in the drawer.

He brushed and pressed his uniform and wondered what awaited him in Strathbane. He hoped no one had reported that Clarry was still living at the police station or he would be in worse trouble than he was.

Detective Chief Inspector Blair was a happy man. Hamish Macbeth would be removed from his job. No more would that lanky Highlander plague him. He wished now that he hadn’t turned the case over to Jimmy Anderson. But he had been feeling weak and shaky after his last bout of drinking and his subsequent treatment in hospital.

He had been off the booze for six weeks now, and he was feeling fit and well. It all went to show he could take it or leave it. Still, the sacking of Hamish Macbeth demanded some sort of celebration. He went to his usual pub and virtuously ordered a glass of tonic water with ice and a slice of lemon.

♦

Hamish stood in front of a long desk and faced his judges. Superintendent Daviot was there, flanked by two hard-faced investigators from the Internal Investigations Department, the chief constable, and Daviot’s secretary, Helen, who looked happy because she disliked Hamish almost as much as Blair did.

They went over all the old ground. Hamish did not have any right to order a citizen to throw a hammer at a helicopter, which had resulted in the death of the owner. Hamish stood and listened, his face impassive.

“I am sorry, Macbeth,” concluded Daviot, “but there is no alternative but to remove you from the force.”

“Wait a minute,” said one of the detectives, raising his hand. “The fact that Ionides was a murderer and a drug runner and a scab on the face of society puts a different complexion on the matter, in my opinion. Had it not been for Macbeth here, we would never have got on to him. There is another factor. The pilot swears blind they had nothing to do with the murder of Angus Ettrik. I cannot see he had any reason to lie. He could well have lied and claimed that Ionides was totally responsible for the murder of Fergus.”

“Maybe he didn’t mind saying he helped in one murder but did not want to say he had assisted in two,” said Daviot.

“I don’t think so. This officer” – the detective pointed a pencil at Hamish – “has had several remarkable successes in the past. I know you don’t like his methods, sir, but nonetheless, I am worried because I think we have an unsolved murder here, and Macbeth knows his territory and the people in it.”

Daviot said, “Would you wait outside, Macbeth?”

Hamish walked stiffly out, his cap under his arm. He sat down in Helen’s chair and swung it to one side and then the other. Then he rose and raided Helen’s cupboard, where he knew the biscuits were kept. He made himself a cup of coffee on her machine. She would be furious, but he would probably never have to see her again.

Time passed. His eyes drooped. He fell asleep with his feet on Helen’s desk.

When Helen came out after an hour to summon him back, she took in the spectacle of the empty coffee cup – her own private best china coffee cup – the plate full of biscuit crumbs and the sleeping constable. Her face flamed with anger. “Officer Macbeth!” she shouted in his ear.

Hamish jerked awake. “Och, it iss yourself, Helen,” he said amiably.

“Get in there!” snarled Helen.

Hamish got lazily to his feet. “My, your colour is awfy bad, Helen. It could be the high blood pressure.”

He smiled at her and walked past her into the room.

“Macbeth,” said Daviot, “as a punishment you will lose your sergeant’s stripes. But you will continue your duties in Lochdubh. You will see Detective Anderson before you leave, and he will brief you. That will be all.”

Hamish went out, feeling dazed and happy. He still had his job and his beloved police station.

He went down to the detectives’ room where he found Jimmy. “So you’re still with us,” said a grinning Jimmy. “Reduced to the ranks.”

“Aye, but I’ve still got my job,” said Hamish happily.

Jimmy handed him two enormous folders. “What’s this?”

“You’ll need to try to find out who murdered Angus. I’ll be over there with Macnab to go over the case with you. In those folders are all the interviews after the death of Angus. Go through them again and see if there’s anything there we can work on. Now, off with you. I’ve got a phone call to make.”

When Hamish had left, Jimmy dialled the number of the pub where he knew Blair to be and asked to speak to him. “This is a great day, Jimmy,” crowed Blair over the phone.

“That it is,” said Jimmy smoothly. “We never like to see one of our own get the push.”

There was a shocked silence. Then Blair roared like a bull in pain, “D’ye mean tae tell me that pillock’s still got his job?”

“Yes, but he isn’t a sergeant anymore.”

“How did he get away with it?”

Jimmy was enjoying himself immensely. “I don’t know. I wasn’t there, but they phoned down and asked me to brief him on the Angus Ettrik case.”

Blair uttered a stream of Anglo-Saxon words and then slammed down the receiver. He went back to his table in the bar. He had gone back to the police canteen for his lunch and, because it was his day off, had returned to the pub through force of habit. A nearly full glass of tonic water winked at him in the flashing lights of the fruit machine next to the table. He picked it up and strode to the bar. “Put a double gin in there,” he shouted. Blair was normally a whisky drinker, but there was no point in wasting good tonic water.