Death of a Valentine Part 26

There was a short drive at the front of the house, shadowed by trees and bushes. Tyre marks at the side in the gravel showed that the sweep had ridden round to the kitchen door at the side.

Hamish went to the general stores first where Jock Kennedy and his wife, Ailsa, served behind the counter. He told them what had happened and then appealed to Ailsa, "I think Mrs. Davenport could do wi' a bit of female company."

"I'll get up there right away," said Ailsa.

Hamish then headed up over the moors to the hut in which Pete Ray lived. He knocked but there was no reply. He walked around the hut amongst bits of old rusting machinery but could not see the motorbike. He tried the door handle of the hut and found the door was not locked. He entered flashing his torch this way and that because he knew the hut did not have any electricity. It consisted of one room with a calor gas stove in one corner, a dirty unmade bed against one wall, an old iron stove and a jumble of magazines heaped on the floor beside the bed. A curtained recess contained one good suit and lying underneath the suit on the floor, a heap of underwear and dirty sweaters.

He went back outside, experiencing a feeling of dread. He could not see Pete committing such a pointless and elaborate murder. Hamish took out his phone and called Jimmy Anderson. "Can't see Pete anywhere," he said.

"Blair's got an all-points out on Pete Ray," said Jimmy, "although I don't see how a sweep on an old- fashioned bike should suddenly become invisible."

"I can," said Hamish gloomily.

"What?"

"What if the murderer was interrupted by the sweep, killed him, drove his bike off to the nearest peat bog and made the lot disappear?"

"Trust you to go complicating things."

But the next day, Pete was found dead up on the moors. It appeared his motorcycle had struck a hollow hidden in the heather and had catapulted him onto a sharp rock. His neck was broken. He was clutching a tyre iron matted with hair and blood. In the sidecar were found silver candlesticks, the captain's wallet and Milly's jewellery. Case closed. Pete had been caught by the captain and had killed him.

The following evening when Jimmy called at the police station in Lochdubh, he found Hamish Macbeth in a truculent mood.

"I dinnae believe it," exclaimed Hamish. "Not Pete. He was a gentle soul and he loved his chimneys. He was a bit simple in a way. But vicious? Neffer!"

"Oh, calm down and give me a dram," said Jimmy.

Hamish poured him a measure of whisky. "It's like this," he said. "Davenport tells the wife that he is going out for a walk and if anyone asks for him to say he's gone abroad."

"You've been hacking into the police computers again," accused Jimmy.

Hamish ignored that remark and went on: "So say this person meets him and they walk back to the house. This person quarrels with Davenport and bashes his head in wi' a tyre iron, and then like a bad elf, down the chimney and out pops Pete. It's one of thae old-fashioned chimneys with climbing rungs inside from the days when the sweep sent a boy up. Pete could get up there himself. He was all skin and bone. The murderer kills him, takes a few objects to make it look as if Pete was a robber as well, gets him in the sidecar and goes off over the moors to fake the whole thing. Returns to the house and searching for something he wants, can't find it and in a rage he stuffs the captain up the chimney, hoping it'll be sometime before the body is found."

"Oh, come on, Hamish. Let it go."

"No! I bet forensic never examined that sidecar properly. I want to see it."

"It's eight o'clock, laddie."

"Come on, Jimmy. Let's go."

"All right. Leave your beasts behind. They give me the shivers."

Hamish's "beasties" were a dog called Lugs and a wild cat called Sonsie. Jimmy should have known that Hamish would no more consider leaving them behind than he would a pair of small children.

Hamish set off driving his Land Rover while Jimmy followed in his unmarked police car.

There was a mildness in the evening air as if winter was at last releasing its grip on Sutherland. Great stars blazed above with the towering mountains' black silhouettes against the bright sky.

The head of SOCO was a beefy truculent man called Angus Forrest. "I'm packing up for the night," he growled.

"We just want a wee look at that sweep's sidecar," said Jimmy.

"I was going to go over it tomorrow. Doesn't seem much point. Open and shut case."

"Won't take us long," said Jimmy stubbornly.

The motorcycle and sidecar were parked in a garage at the side of police headquarters. Angus switched on the overhead lights. "I'm off to the pub," he said. "Phone me when you've finished. But suit up and get your gloves on."

Jimmy and Hamish struggled into their blue forensic suits and boots. "Now," said Hamish, his hazel eyes gleaming. "Let's see what we can find. I suppose the tyre iron and the jewellery and wallet have all been bagged up but it's that sidecar that interests me. We need luminol," said Hamish.

"What do you think this is?" grumbled Jimmy. "The telly? Got a fingerprint kit?"

"Got it with me."

"Okay, dust away. I'll sit over there and watch you."

Hamish carefully began to dust the sidecar and motorbike. He finally straightened up. "Whoever drove this wore gloves. When did Pete wear gloves?"

"When he'd just murdered someone," said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.

"But there are no fingerprints and the sidecar has been wiped clean."

"Pete's fingerprints were found on the candlestick and on the captain's wallet."

"Aye, you can press a dead man's hand on the stuff. I need a damp cloth."

"What for?"

"Never mind. I'll use my handkerchief." Hamish ran it under a tap and wrung it out. Then he bent into the sidecar and gently dabbed at the floor.

He straightened up. "There's blood on the floor."

"Aye, well, laddie, there would be. The captain's blood."

"What is going on here?"

Superintendent Daviot appeared in the doorway. "Macbeth, you are not a member of SOCO or forensics. How dare you tamper with evidence?"

"Sir," said Hamish, "there's blood in the sidecar and I think you'll find it belongs to Pete."

"What are you trying to tell me?"

Once more, Hamish expounded his theory.

"I want you to get out of here and leave it to the experts," snapped Daviot.

"I don't think they were even going to bother," said Hamish. "It's dangerous to let the real murderer go free."

"Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?"

Hamish raised his hands. "A brilliant man like yourself? Oh, no, sir, wasn't I chust saying to Jimmy that a brain like Superintendent Daviot's could never be fooled by faked evidence."

Daviot shifted uneasily. He considered Hamish Macbeth a maverick but one who had an awkward way of getting things right.

"Phone Forrest and get him back here," he said.

When Angus appeared, he was ordered to take samples of the blood from the sidecar and get the DNA checked as soon as possible. "And check those fingerprints on the wallet," said Hamish eagerly, "and see if they look genuine or if a dead man's hand could have been made to make the marks."

"See to it," said Daviot. "On your way, Macbeth. Forrest, I want a word with you."

As Hamish left, he could hear Angus's protesting voice raised in anger. He looked at his watch. It was too late to call on Milly Davenport. He would go and see her in the morning. Why had the captain left his wallet behind? Or had it been taken from his body?

But on the following morning, Hamish received a call summoning him to police headquarters. On his arrival in Daviot's office, he was told he was suspended pending enquiries into his unorthodox behaviour by investigating a crime scene when he did not have the necessary forensic skills.

"You are so anxious to close the case, sir," said Hamish angrily, "that nothing would have been properly inspected."

"Don't be insolent and get out of here before I fire you," said Daviot.

Hamish met Jimmy Anderson on his way out. "I hope I didn't get you into trouble, Jimmy."

"Not me. I know when to grovel and crawl when necessary."

"Do you think they won't bother with the DNA?"

"Oh, they'll bother all right. Blair's rubbing his fat hands and demanding a rush on it. He's so confident of proving you wrong. Anyway, you're in deep doo and I'd suggest you think about packing up your sheep. And you're not to speak to the press. They're all over the place."

Jimmy watched as Hamish walked sadly away. He felt in sudden need of a drink. He went to the local pub near headquarters and ordered a double whisky. He turned and surveyed the bar and his eyes lit on Tam Tamworth, nicknamed "the pig," because with his large ears and beefy face, short nose and pursed lips, he did look piggy.

Jimmy strolled over to him. "I'm not supposed to speak to the press," he said in a low voice, "but see if you can use this. Mention my name and I'll have to kill you."

"So is it about thon murder?" asked Tam.

"Aye, thanks to our Hamish Macbeth, it may turn out to be two murders. Say you happened to have been pa.s.sing the garage at the side o' headquarters last night, this is what you heard." He rapidly described Hamish's suspicions, saying that if Macbeth turned out to be right, he should be getting a commendation rather than suspension.

"Man, what a story," said Tam. "I'm off. I can get it into the morning paper."

Thanks to an excellent sports section, the Strathbane Daily News Strathbane Daily News had a good circulation. Daviot read it next morning with a sinking heart. Blair went out and got drunk, praying between drinks that the DNA would prove Hamish wrong. Headquarters was besieged by press and television demanding a statement. Hamish Macbeth was nowhere to be found. He had packed up his camping equipment, taken his pets and set off to hide out in the moors. had a good circulation. Daviot read it next morning with a sinking heart. Blair went out and got drunk, praying between drinks that the DNA would prove Hamish wrong. Headquarters was besieged by press and television demanding a statement. Hamish Macbeth was nowhere to be found. He had packed up his camping equipment, taken his pets and set off to hide out in the moors.

The previous forensic team had all been sacked because of too many reports of drunkenness. A new laboratory had been built and an expert from Glasgow coaxed up to head the new team. They worked long hours and at last had a full report. The blood in the sidecar belonged to Pete Ray. The fingerprints on the wallet and candlesticks had obviously been put there after the man was dead because it looked as if fingers had been simply pressed down on the items. Pete would have grasped the candlesticks, not put a neat set of fingerprints on them. His neck had not been broken by a fall. Someone had broken his neck by twisting his head back. There were signs that Pete's body had then been stuffed into the sidecar.

And there was worse. Angus Forrest had said there was no use bothering forensics with the motorcycle and sidecar. It was an open-and-shut case, in his opinion, and his superiors had told him to wrap it up fast.

Jimmy was told to get hold of Hamish Macbeth and return him to his duties and to keep away from the press. Phoning Hamish on his mobile, Jimmy gave him the good news. "But you're to keep away for another week," he said, "until Daviot thinks the press have stopped looking for you."

"Suits me," said Hamish laconically, turning sausages on a frying pan balanced on a camp stove outside his tent.

"Aye, but there's something else. You'd better clear out that spare room at the station. You're to get a constable. His name is Torlich McBain and he's a wee sneak. I think he's supposed to keep an eye on you and report to Blair. He's a bit o' a Bible basher. He'll preach you the Word."

Milly Davenport had enjoyed a few days of what she guiltily thought of as freedom. The women from the village were kind. She loved the gossip over cups of tea and she loved the company.

They worked hard like a pack of guard dogs to keep the press away from her and gave Blair a hard time. Blair had worked out a scenario in his fat brain where Milly had a jealous lover and would have browbeaten her had not the women sent a letter of complaint to Daviot.

But on the morning that Hamish Macbeth returned to his police station, Captain Henry Davenport's sister, Miss Philomena Davenport, arrived. "I'm come to stay with you, Milly," she said. "It's what my dear brother would have wanted."

Philomena was a tall woman with big hands and feet. She had cropped grey hair and slightly prominent pale green eyes. She was dressed in gear she considered suitable for the Highlands: knee breeches, lovat wool socks, a green army sweater and a leather fleece.

She disapproved of Milly "consorting with the local peasantry" and so banned them from the house.

Milly felt she had lost one bully only to find another.

Hamish watched sadly as a sc.r.a.p dealer from Alness drove off with the contents of his spare room: an old fridge, bits of a plough, rusting screwdrivers, two old televisions, and a myriad of iron bits and pieces. Although he had previously cleaned it out, when the female constable that was supposed to take the room was billeted at the manse instead, he had just put everything back in again when Mrs. Wellington, the minister's wife, arrived with a cleaning squad. A bed, wardrobe and side table were delivered from a Strathbane shop, the bill to be footed by the police.

Torlich, nicknamed Tolly, arrived to take up residence. He had never risen in the ranks due to failing all the necessary exams. He was small for a policeman with a wrinkled, sagging grey face and weak watery eyes.

"I'll let you get settled in," said Hamish. "I'm off to Drim to have a word with Mrs. Davenport."

"That should be left to your superiors," said Tolly.

He had been told Hamish Macbeth was an easygoing layabout. But the hazel eyes that looked down into his own were as hard as stone. "You will do what you are told, constable," said Hamish. "In future, you address me as 'sir.' You have the day to get your things unpacked."

He turned on his heel and marched out, followed by Sonsie and Lugs. Tolly decided to spend the time going through Hamish's papers and belongings. If he were a spy, then he would be a good spy. G.o.d had given him this chance to prove his mettle.

Hamish drove to the captain's house in Drim and rang the doorbell. A tall tweedy woman answered it. "I am Miss Davenport, my poor brother's sister," she announced, "and Mrs. Davenport has had enough of the police. Good day to you."

The door began to close. Hamish put his boot in it.

"Neffer let it be said that a lady like yourself is impeding the police in a murder enquiry," remarked Hamish, the sudden sibilance of his highland accent showing he was annoyed.

"Who is it?" Milly appeared behind her sister-in-law. "Oh, I remember you. Please come in."