Death of a Maid (2 page)

She screeched to a halt and rolled down the window.

‘Whit?’

‘Your exhaust is filthy. Get to a garage immediately and get it fixed, or I’ll have to book you.’

By way of reply, she let in the clutch and stamped on the accelerator. Hamish jumped back as she roared off.

Back inside the police station, he looked gloomily around. The kitchen floor was gleaming with water which should have been mopped up. The air stank of disinfectant. Then he looked at the
kitchen table. The letter from Elspeth, which he had crumpled up and left there, had gone.

He searched the rubbish bin, but it had been already emptied. He had heard stories that Mrs Gillespie was a snoop.

He decided to drive over to Braikie, where she lived, on the following day and confront her. He guessed she would protest that it was a crumpled piece of paper and she had just been clearing up,
but he thought that he and others had been cowardly long enough.

Then Hamish swore under his breath. He had forgotten to lock the police station office. He went in. The cables had been detached from the computer. He replugged them and then looked around the
office, glad that he had at least locked the filing cabinet.

He went back to the kitchen, got out his own mop, and cleaned up the water from the kitchen floor. The work made him relax and count his blessings. With police stations closing down all over the
place, he had still managed to survive.

But down in a bar in Strathbane, Detective Chief Inspector Blair was wondering again how he could winkle Hamish Macbeth out of that police station of his and get him moved to
the anonymity of Strathbane, where he would just be another copper among many. As he sipped his first double Scotch of the day, Blair dreamed of getting Hamish put on traffic duty.

‘I’ll have a vodka and tonic,’ said a hearty voice beside him. A man had just come up to the bar. Blair squinted sideways and looked at him. He was balding on the front, with
the remainder of his grey hair tied back in a pony-tail. He had a thin face, black-rimmed glasses, and a small beard. He was dressed in a blue donkey jacket and jeans, but he was wearing a collar
and tie.

‘Are you from the television station?’ asked Blair.

‘Aye. Who are you?’

Blair held out a fat mottled hand. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair.’

‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Phil McTavish, head of documentaries.’

Blair thought quickly, the whisky-fuelled cogs of his brain spinning at a great rate. In the past, Hamish Macbeth had always side-stepped promotion, knowing that promotion would mean a transfer
to Strathbane. But what if there were to be a flattering documentary about Hamish? The top brass would feel they really had to do something, and he could swear they had a party every time another
village police station was closed down, sending more money into their coffers.

‘It’s funny meeting you like this,’ said Blair, giving Phil his best oily smile. ‘I’ve got a great idea for a documentary.’

The following day Hamish had to postpone his trip to Braikie. He had been summoned by his boss, Superintendent Peter Daviot, to police headquarters for an interview.

The day suited his mood. The brief spell of good weather had changed to a damp drizzle. Wraiths of mist crawled down the flanks of the mountains.

Strathbane had once been a busy fishing port, but new European fishing quotas had destroyed business. Then, under a scheme to regenerate the Highlands, new businesses were set up, but drugs had
arrived before them and the town became a depressed area of rotting factories, vandalized high-rises and dangerous, violent youths.

Hamish’s spirits were low as he parked in front of police headquarters and made his way up to Daviot’s office, where the secretary, Helen, who loathed him, gave him a wintry smile
and told him to go in.

Daviot was not alone. There were two other people there: a middle-aged man with a pony-tail and a small eager-looking girl.

‘Ah, Hamish,’ said Daviot. ‘Let me introduce you. This is Mr Peter McTavish, head of Strathbane Television’s documentary programmes.’

Hamish shook hands with him and then looked inquiringly at the girl. ‘And here is one of his researchers, Shona Fraser.’ Shona, although white, had her hair in dreadlocks. Her small
face was dominated by a pair of very large brown eyes. She was dressed in a denim jacket over a faded black T-shirt, jeans ripped at the knee and a pair of large, clumpy boots.

‘Detective Chief Inspector Blair has told Mr McTavish that your colourful character and exploits would make a very good documentary. Miss Fraser here will go around with you initially to
take notes and report back to Mr McTavish.’

Daviot beamed all around, his white hair carefully barbered and his suit a miracle of good tailoring.

Shona looked curiously at the tall policeman. He was standing very still, his cap under his arm. He seemed to have gone into a trance.

What Hamish was thinking was: I bet that bastard hopes to make me famous so they’ll feel obliged to give me a promotion and get me out of Lochdubh. He knew it would be useless to
protest.

Instead, he gave himself a little shake, smiled, and said, ‘Perhaps it might be a good idea if I took Mr McTavish and Miss Fraser to the pub to discuss this informally.’

‘Good idea,’ said Daviot. ‘Put any hospitality on your expenses.’

Once they were settled over their drinks in the pub, Hamish said solemnly, ‘You’ve got the wrong man.’

‘How’s that?’ asked Phil.

‘You see, Blair is a verra modest man. Let me tell you about him.’ Hamish outlined several famous murder cases which he himself had solved but had let Blair take the credit for. He
ended up by saying, ‘I’m just a local bobby. There’s no colour for you there. But Blair! Man, he’ll take you to the worst parts of Strathbane. You’ll be witnesses to
drug raids and violence.’

Their eyes gleamed with the excitement of the naïve who have never really been exposed to anything nasty.

When Blair was told later that he was to be the subject of the documentary, rage warred with vanity in his fat breast, but vanity won.

Hamish whistled cheerfully as he drove back to Lochdubh. Mrs Gillespie could wait until the next morning.

Elspeth Grant was having lunch with Luke Teviot, another reporter. She found Luke attractive. Although a good reporter, he cultivated an easy-going manner. He had thick fair
hair and a rather dissipated face. He was very tall.

‘So you’re off on your holidays,’ said Luke. ‘Where?’

‘Back to Lochdubh.’

‘You got a good story out of there last time.’

‘It’s normally the sleepiest, most laid-back place in the world,’ said Elspeth. ‘Just what I need.’

‘I’ve never been to the Highlands,’ said Luke.

‘What! You’re a Scot, a Glaswegian.’

‘You know how it is, Elspeth. I mean the real Highlands. The furthest I ever get was covering people stranded in Glencoe in the winter. I’ve never been further north than Perth. When
the holidays come along, I head abroad for the sun. I’ve got holidays owing. Mind if I come with you?’

‘You’re joking.’

‘Not a bit of it.’

‘But why? It’s not as if we’re an item.’

‘Don’t have to be. I hate taking holidays on my own.’

‘Never been married?’

‘Twice. Didn’t work out. Mind you, I was lucky. Both women were rich and were so glad to get rid of me, they didn’t want any money.’

‘Why were they glad to get rid of you?’

‘You know what reporting’s like, Elspeth. I was hardly ever home. Come on. Let’s go together. It would be fun. I could do with some clean air to fumigate my lungs.’

‘How many do you smoke?’

‘Sixty a day.’

‘You could stop, stay in Glasgow, and get clean lungs that way.’

‘Think about it. You could at least have company on that long drive.’

Elspeth thought about Hamish. It would be rather pleasant to turn up accompanied by Luke and show him she really didn’t care.

‘All right,’ she said. ‘You’re on.’

Hamish set out for Braikie the following morning. Braikie was not Hamish’s favourite town, although it was miles better than Strathbane, and much smaller. The posher
locals referred to it as ‘the village’. It had some fine Victorian villas at the north end, a depressing housing estate of grey houses all looking the same at the south end, and a main
street of small dark shops with flats above them stretching out on either side of the town hall and library. A few brave souls lived in bungalows on the shore road facing the Atlantic. They often
had to be rescued when November gales sent giant waves crashing into their homes. The main town, however, was huddled several damp fields away, out of the sight and sound of the sea.

Mrs Gillespie lived in the housing estate. When Hamish called at her home, he noticed to his surprise that she had bought her house. He could see this because she had had picture windows
installed, and householders who rented their homes from the council were not allowed to change the buildings. House prices, even this far north, were rising steeply, and he wondered how she could
have afforded the purchase price.

Now that he was actually on her doorstep, he could feel his courage waning. He reminded himself sharply that it was high time someone put Mrs Gillespie in her place.

He rang the bell. The door was answered by a little gnome of a man wearing a cardigan. He had a bald, freckled scalp. ‘Mr Gillespie?’ ventured Hamish. He had always assumed Mrs
Gillespie to be a widow.

‘Aye, that’s me.’

‘Is your wife at home?’

‘No, she’s up at the professor’s. What’s up?’

‘Nothing important. I just want a wee word with her. I’ll be off to the professor’s.’

Professor Sander was retired. He lived in a large Victorian villa in the better part of town. It was isolated from its neighbours at the end of a cul-de-sac. Hamish could see Mrs
Gillespie’s car parked on the road outside. He parked as well and walked to the garden entrance, which was flanked on one side by a magnificent rowan tree, weighed down with red berries, and
on the other by an old-fashioned pump.

He was about to walk up the short drive when he stopped. There had been something he had seen out of the corner of his eye.

He turned and looked.

Mavis Gillespie lay huddled at the foot of the pump. He went up to her and bent down and felt for a pulse. There was none. Her bucket and mop lay beside her. Blood flowed from a wound on her
head, and he noticed a stain of blood on the bucket.

He stood up and took out his mobile phone and called police headquarters. Then he went to his Land Rover and found a pair of latex gloves and put them on. Mrs Gillespie’s handbag was lying
beside her on the ground. It looked as if she had been struck down just as she was leaving.

He opened the handbag and looked inside.

The first thing he saw was that crumpled letter from Elspeth. He gingerly took it out and put it in his pocket.

Then he waited for reinforcements to arrive.

A fussy little man came down the drive. He had a shock of white hair and was dressed in a Harris tweed suit. He was wearing a blue and white polka-dot bow tie. Hamish guessed
he was probably in his late seventies. He had a chubby face with a small pursed mouth. He looked like an elderly baby.

‘Why are the police here?’ he said, then saw the crumpled body on the ground. In death, Mrs Gillespie seemed much smaller, more a heap of clothes than what had so recently been a
living person.

‘There appears to have been an accident,’ said Hamish. ‘Are you Professor Sander?’

‘Yes, yes. How unfortunate. If you want me, I’ll be up at the house.’

He turned away.

‘Wait a minute,’ said Hamish, ‘did you see anyone outside your house this morning?’

‘No, why? It’s not as if it’s murder, is it?’

‘I’ll need to wait and see. There’s blood on the bucket. Someone may have hit her over the head. Was she leaving, and when?’

‘About half an hour ago. Really, Officer, I don’t notice the comings and goings of the home help.’

‘But you couldn’t avoid hearing the comings and goings of Mrs Gillespie,’ Hamish pointed out. ‘She made one hell of a noise.’

‘I am writing a history of Napoleon’s Russian campaign, and when this brain of mine is absorbed in writing, I am not aware of anything else.’

‘There must already be an awful lot of books about Napoleon in Russia,’ commented Hamish.

‘What would you know about history, young man?’

With relief, Hamish heard the approaching sirens. He was beginning to dislike the professor.

Blair and Detective Jimmy Anderson arrived in the first car. In the second car was the pathologist, Dr Forsythe. Following that was a people carrier full of the forensic team and in the last
car, the small excited figure of Shona Fraser.

‘What have we here, Macbeth?’ demanded Blair.

‘It looks as if someone might have brained her with her bucket,’ said Hamish.

While the pathologist got out her kit, Blair bent over the body. Then he straightened up, his alcohol-wet eyes gleaming with triumph. ‘That’s where you’re wrong, laddie,’
he said loudly, casting a look in Shona’s direction. ‘There’s blood on the stone at the foot o’ that auld pump. She must ha’ tripped and given her head a sore
dunt.’

‘If you will allow me,’ said the pathologist. She pushed Blair aside and bent over the body.

There was a long silence while she investigated. The day was dry, but a mist was coming down, turning the landscape into a uniform grey.

A seagull wheeled and screeched overhead. Rowan berries, bright as blood, fell down from the tree.

At last, Dr Forsythe straightened up. ‘I can tell you more when I make a proper examination, but, yes, it seems someone struck her a murderous blow on the back of her head with her own
bucket. She fell forward and struck her forehead on the stone in front of the pump.’

‘There might have been a struggle,’ said Hamish. ‘You can see where the gravel at the foot of the drive has been all scraped.’