Death of a Charming Man (9 page)

‘Miss Tabbet, who is claiming for a new frying-pan, says you had an insolent manner. You approached her in her bedroom, you made yourself coffee without her permission, and you went off leaving everything unlocked and your dirty cup on the living room table. She, too, has lodged a complaint.’

Hamish could feel himself already being enmeshed in a nightmarish web of red tape. He carefully explained in detail what had happened when he had awoken the schoolteacher and why he had gone without waking her again.

Mr Daviot sighed. ‘You make it all sound very reasonable and I must admit that Miss Tabbet is a tiresome female. But to return to Dolan. We are very anxious to avoid charges of brutality. Think what the press will make of this.’

‘I’ll bet you Dolan’s got previous,’ said Hamish.

‘Well, he has. Quite a lot.’

‘Grievous bodily harm, actual bodily harm, that sort of thing?’

‘Yes, and armed robbery.’

‘Well, there you –’

‘Macbeth, you have always had an unorthodox way of going about things. The sensible course, the minute you suspected Dolan was going to break into that house, would have been to have ordered back-up from Strath-bane. Two of you could have overpowered the man without resorting to violence.’

‘There’s little even several men can do against a hunting-knife in the hands of a man like Dolan without using violence.’

‘My other officers don’t get themselves into situations like this,’ said Mr Daviot, with a trace of pettishness creeping into his voice.

‘I made an arrest, sir. I stopped the burglaries. And instead of getting thanks, all I get is carpeted because a dangerous criminal takes it into his thick head to have a go at me.’

‘We’re all very grateful to you. But this complaint has been made and you will need to go before the inquiry board. I suggest you curb that insolent manner of yours, Macbeth. Now, are you engaged in anything else at the moment?’

‘Just one little thing. There was a newcomer over at Drim, an Englishman. He left the village but no one saw him go. He left a note to say his house was on the market.’

‘So?’

‘He had caused a lot of trouble in the village by flirting with the women. The men hated him. There’s something about it all I don’t like.’

‘If he has put his house on the market, it seems to me as if he is very much all right. Did he leave everything behind?’

‘No.’

‘There you are. I know crime has been thin on the ground on your patch, but there is no need to go around inventing any. I want you to go downstairs and find a desk and type up a full report on the arrest of Dolan for me.’

‘Very good, sir.’

Hamish went out. Helen was not there but there was a full cup of hot tea on her desk. He picked it up and took it with him. He went in search of Jimmy Anderson and found him in the canteen.

‘You’re in favour,’ said Jimmy.

‘Makes a nice change,’ rejoined Hamish.

‘Aye, it’s not often the steely Helen lets anyone have a cup of tea, let alone in her favourite cup.’

Startled, Hamish looked at the cup in his hand, which was decorated with roses. He had a sudden feeling that taking Helen’s teacup was going to land him in worse disgrace than anything Dolan could throw at him. ‘Back in a moment,’ he said.

He went straight to Chief Detective Inspector Blair’s room and popped his head round the door. It was empty. He darted in and put Helen’s cup on the desk and then returned to the canteen.

He got himself a cup of tea and a plate of egg and chips and rejoined Jimmy.

‘So Dolan’s got it in for you,’ said Jimmy ‘You know what’s odd about that?’

‘Apart from damned cheek, no.’

‘Our beloved leader, Blair, paid a visit on Dolan. Not his case really. All sewn up tidy. Dolan admitted to the other burglaries in Carrask. Quiet as a lamb. So Blair comes out wi’ a fat grin on his unlovely face and the next thing Dolan’s ringing his bell and calling fur a lawyer and filing a complaint against one Hamish Macbeth.’

‘That bastard!’

‘Aye, well, there you are.’

‘And where’s Dolan now?’

‘In the remand wing o’ Strathbane pokey awaiting trial.’

Hamish gloomily ate his egg and chips and then went down and borrowed Jimmy’s desk and filed his second report on the arrest of Dolan. His thoughts turned to Priscilla. He felt alone with his problems and wanted to unburden himself. But before he returned to Lochdubh, he might as well check the estate agent’s.

Cummings and Bane was the same estate agent as the one he had visited with Priscilla. This time he told the young man who he was officially and asked about the sale of Peter’s house.

‘Yes, that’s all in order,’ said the young man. ‘Mr Hynd called on us personally. We think we may have a sale already. We have the name of the lawyers in Inverness.’

‘I have that,’ said Hamish moodily. That was that. No mystery.

He drove back to Lochdubh and went straight to Tommel Castle. He had forgotten about his anger at Priscilla but experienced it again when he saw her looking cool and remote. But he needed to unburden himself. He told her first about how his investigations in Drim had been cut short. She listened carefully to his tale of Dolan and Miss Tabbet. When he had finished, she said, ‘Would you like me to have a word with Susan Daviot?’

‘That wouldn’t help. There’s nothing she can do. Dolan’s made the complaint, got a lawyer, and the whole thing will grind on to an inquiry and then I will probably be suspended. I’ve put up too many backs in Strathbane.’

‘Nonetheless, I’ll see what I can do.’

‘Och, what the hell can
you
do,’ snapped Hamish, suddenly disgusted by what he saw as her cool detachment from him.

Priscilla sadly watched him go. It was all such a mess. Why hadn’t she waited for him at the police station? But she did not want to answer her own question, so she turned her mind to Hamish’s story.

She went through to the office and phoned Susan Daviot. ‘Hamish is in trouble and all because of this fool Dolan,’ said Priscilla.

Mrs Daviot’s voice lacked its usual ingratiating warmth. ‘It seems to me, Priscilla, as if Hamish went over the top. Now Dolan’s sister is making trouble and threatening to talk to the newspapers before the inquiry.’

‘What’s her name?’

‘Bridget Dolan.’

‘And where does she live?’

‘That’s clessified information.’

‘Dear me, aren’t we being a trifle stupid, Susan?’ Priscilla was at her haughtiest.

‘But I cannot tell you secret information. Never mind. When are we meeting for a little chet?’

‘I am going to be
much
too busy in the future, Susan.’

Susan Daviot saw her social ambitions biting the dust. ‘Come to think of it, I did hear that the Dolan woman was living at number forty, Winnie Mandela Court.’

‘Thank you, Susan. I’ve just remembered, next Tuesday is a quiet day if you would care to come for tea.’

Mrs Daviot sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the god who looks after social climbers. ‘
Thenk
you, Priscilla, dear.’

Priscilla grinned and put down the phone. She went out and drove off to Carrask and parked in front of the schoolteacher’s house and waited patiently while the afternoon wore on. At last she saw a figure who could only be the schoolteacher returning and climbed out of the car. ‘Miss Tabbet?’

Miss Tabbet swung round and looked favourably at the elegant creature in front of her. ‘What can I do for you, Miss …?’

‘Miss Churchill. I represent the
Daily Bugle
.’

The smile faded on Miss Tabbet’s face. The
Daily Bugle
was one of Britain’s sleaziest tabloids.

‘And what do you want with me?’ asked Miss Tabbet.

‘You made a report to Strathbane police which contained complaints against a certain police sergeant, Hamish Macbeth. In it, you said he had come into your bedroom.’

‘Yes, but –’

‘Good stuff, that,’ said Priscilla cheerfully. ‘“Schoolmarm lures copper into her bedroom.”’

‘But he burst into my room when I was asleep.’

‘“The Sexy Copper”? Even better.’

‘This is dreadful,’ said Miss Tabbet. ‘I do not want my name in the papers. I have always been a respectable body. You ruin people. Look what you did to dear Prince Charles! I will have you stopped.’

‘As long as you’ve made an official complaint. Come on. Let’s go indoors. My photographer will be along in a minute and I want to be ahead of the pack.’

‘THE PACK!’

‘Yes, they’ll all be along. Maybe you’d like to fix your hair and put on a shorter skirt.’

‘I’m withdrawing any complaint,’ screamed Miss Tabbet.

‘But that means there’ll be no story!’ cried Priscilla.

‘That’s it then. I’m doing it now. Get out of my way.’

Priscilla watched with amusement as the terrified teacher scampered to a garage at the side of the bungalow. Moments later an old Rover was backed out, with Miss Tabbet crouched over the wheel. She turned and drove off down the road in the direction of Strathbane.

Waiting until she was out of sight, Priscilla followed along the Strathbane road at a leisurely speed.

When she arrived in Strathbane, she took out a folder of maps and selected a street map of Strathbane and located Winnie Mandela Court and drove there. It turned out to be one of those depressing Stalinist tower blocks boasting a broken urine-smelling elevator and acres of graffiti. Priscilla trudged up the stairs. A group of skinheads barred her way on the first landing. ‘I am from the Social Security Department,’ said Priscilla frostily, ‘investigating dole claims.’

They shrank back and let her past. Priscilla reflected that if she had said she was a policewoman, they would probably have beaten her up.

Finally she reached number 40 along a rubbish-littered balcony which afforded a view of the grim harbour. The door was answered by a massive woman with dyed-blonde hair and a face so covered with broken veins that it looked like an ordnance-survey map. ‘What d’ye want?’ she asked, the watery eyes of the habitual drinker raking Priscilla up and down.

‘I am from the
Daily Bugle
,’ said Priscilla. ‘We are interested in buying your brother’s story about police brutality.’

‘Come in,’ said Bridget eagerly. ‘I phoned youse lot up but you says you weren’t interested.’

‘Some amateur took the call.’ Priscilla was ushered into a living room which was awful in its filth and dreariness. She sat down on a hard chair after looking suspiciously at the greasy stains on the upholstered ones.

‘I’ll tell you all I know,’ said Bridget.

‘My newspaper is prepared to pay a large sum, but I need to see your brother in person. Do you by any chance have a visitor’s pass?’

Her eyes gleamed. ‘I have one for tomorrow morning – ten o’clock.’

Priscilla opened her handbag and took out her wallet. She extracted two twenties. ‘Just something on account.’ Bridget snatched up the notes and tucked them down somewhere near her heavy bosom. She went over to a battered handbag on an equally battered sideboard and took out a pass. ‘How much will the
Bugle
pay?’ she asked. ‘Thousands?’

‘It’s up to the editor.’

Refusing all invitations of tea, stout and gin, Priscilla took her leave. She drove off and parked in the multi-storey in the centre and decided to call at the estate agent’s, Cummings and Bane, just to see if there were any more properties on the market. She would not nag Hamish into staying in Strathbane, but there might be something between Lochdubh and Strathbane.

The young man leaped up to greet her, as hopeful as ever. He produced folders of houses and Priscilla sat down and went through them. She came to Peter Hynd’s cottage and looked at it curiously. She tapped it with her fingernail. ‘I knew Mr Hynd,’ she said. ‘Any idea why he left?’

‘Och, I don’t think I thought to ask,’ said the young man. ‘You know how it is, the English come and go. Are you interested, Miss Halburton-Smythe?’

‘Not in Drim, no. Exceptionally beautiful young man, Mr Hynd.’ Priscilla opened another folder.

‘I couldn’t say,’ said the estate agent.

Priscilla looked up quickly. ‘But you saw him!’

‘Aye, but he had such a bad cold, poor man. His voice was rasping and he had a scarf up round his face. He said he was protecting us from his germs.’

‘What colour of hair?’

‘I can’t say as I can remember. Tracey, do you call to mind that young Mr Hynd, the one with the property over in Drim?’

‘The one wi’ the cold?’

‘Aye, him. What colour was his hair?’

‘Fairish, I think. Had one of those deerstalkers on, like Sherlock Holmes.’

Priscilla stored up this information to tell Hamish. She looked through some more folders but with the feeling that Hamish Macbeth would not like any of them. She thanked the young man and left. She was reluctant to return to Lochdubh. She decided to buy herself a tooth-brush, a change of clothes, and check into The Highlander, Strathbane’s main hotel, and stay the night. It would be pleasant to be in someone else’s hotel for a change.

Just before ten in the morning she joined the queue of depressed and depressing women waiting to get into the prison. Some of the women tried to engage her in conversation but she snubbed them, being tired of making up stories about herself and so, to a sort of Greek chorus of ‘Stuck-up bitch,’ she finally made her way into the prison.

Dolan appeared on the other side of the glass and stared at the vision that was Priscilla in amazement.

‘They said it was my sister,’ he exclaimed.

‘Listen very hard to me,’ said Priscilla, leaning forward. ‘I am Hamish Macbeth’s fiancée, and I am here to tell you that if you do not withdraw your complaint of police brutality, I will have a word with the sheriff, who is a personal friend, and make sure you are put away for a long stretch in Inverness prison, where Hamish has many friends among the warders. Not only that, I have many connections and I will hound you, both inside prison or out, even if it means sending one of the gamekeepers after you with a gun.’

‘Wait till I tell the polis about you,’ jeered Dolan. ‘More threats.’

‘And who will they believe?’ she mocked. ‘Me or you? Go ahead. I will prove you are a liar. I’m out for your blood, Dolan.’