ambitious plans.
But whatever had happened to Peter Hynd would have to wait for another day.
As he walked into police headquarters he was met by his bete noire, Detective Chief Inspector Blair. Blair’s fat features creased into a smile. “On yer way upstairs,” he said. “My, my. Have fun.”
Hamish frowned. If Blair had got wind of any possible promotion for Hamish Macbeth, he would have been in a foul mood. With a sulking feeling he took the lift up to the sixth floor. The chief superintendent’s secretary, Helen Jessop, was typing efficiently. She looked up when he entered. “You’ll need to wait,” she said, “he’s busy,” and went on typing.
“Any idea what it’s about?” asked Hamish.
“You’ll just need to find out,” said Helen, ripping out one sheet and screwing in another.
“Why don’t you have a word processor instead of that old fashioned thing?” asked Hamish.
“This machine has served me very well. I don’t hold with computers,” said Helen.
“Meaning you don’t know anything about them and are too frightened to find out,” said Hamish maliciously. “It’s known as technofear. The plague of the middle-aged.”
Helen snorted by way of reply.
“Any chance of a cup of tea?” asked Hamish;
“No.”
Hamish sat and fidgeted. He could hear the hum of voices from inside Peter Daviot’s office. The shelf behind Helen’s desk was a jungle of depressing greenhouse plants. Secretaries with house-plants were a threatening breed, thought Hamish. As time dragged by, he grew more uneasy. It was like waiting outside the headmaster’s office. At last the door opened and five men in business suits came out.
“I am about to interview the officer in question,” said Mr. Daviot, “and I will give you my full report.”
The suits turned as one man and looked Hamish up and down before filing out. One of the men’s voices floated back to Hamish’s sharp ears. “Doesn’t look violent, but you never can tell.”
“Come in, Macbeth,” said Mr. Daviot. No ‘Hamish.’ A warning sign like a stormcone hoisted over Hamish’s head. He tucked his cap under his arm and stood meekly in front of the super’s desk.
“Sit down,” said Mr. Daviot. “Sorry to keep you waiting. Helen been looking after you?”
“She refused to get me a cup of tea,” said Hamish, hoping he was sliding the knife into Helen’s corseted ribs.
“Come into the twentieth century, Macbeth. You don’t go around ordering tea from secretaries or they’ll report you to the Equal Opportunities Board or something.”
“Why, sir?”
“Making and fetching tea is demeaning.”
“I don’t get it,” said Hamish puzzled. “Isn’t it the same as ‘Type this letter’, ‘Make this phone call’, ‘Order flowers for my wife’?”
“It implies you are treating a business woman like a housewife.”
“I don’t get it. A housewife can say, ‘Get the damn thing yourself.’ A secretary can’t.”
“Because…Look, I did not bring you here to talk about Women’s Lib. There has been a serious charge laid against you.”
“By whom?”
“By Sammy Dolan.”
“That toe-rag! What’s he saying?”
“He’s filed a complaint of police brutality. He’s got a lawyer. He says you hit him with a frying-pan and he’s got a lump on his head to prove it.”
“I hit him with the frying-pan because he was resisting arrest, or, to put it more bluntly, had I not hit him, he would have knifed me. I filed a full report.”
“Just tell me again, in your own words.”
Hamish felt a stab of irritation. He suddenly wanted to say, “No, I’ll tell you in someone else’s words,” and imitate Blair’s, thick Glasgow accent and boorish manner. “I had reason to believe that Dolan meant to break into the schoolteacher’s house,” he said patiently. “Just after two in the morning, I heard the sound of breaking glass in the kitchen, and went through. Dolan had smashed the glass. He opened the catch and climbed into the kitchen. I switched on the light. He took a hunting-knife out of his boot and came at me. I reached behind me and picked up the frying-pan. Before he could knife me, I hit him on the head. He fell to the floor, stunned but still conscious. I handcuffed him to the cooker. I read the charge, phoned Strathbane, and waited until the van arrived. That’s all.”
“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 Strathbane. 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.
