paws, no dog any more to welcome him. Towser was dead, buried on the hill above the police station. Hamish was just making himself a cup of coffee when the kitchen door opened and Blair came in, an unlovely smile on his fat face. “When do you begin packing up, laddie?” he jeered.
“Soon, I suppose,” said Hamish. “Och, I nearly forgot. You’re to report to Strathbane right away. Daviot wants a wee word with you.”
“What about?”
Hamish shrugged. “How can I read the minds of the great? But frae the look on his face, I would suggest you get there fast.”
¦
Blair drove as quickly as he could towards Strathbane. He sensed he was in trouble but could not think why. It couldn’t be anything to do with Macbeth. The man was at fault and would have to go and he had reported Hamish’s crime like any responsible senior officer should do. Occasionally he craned his head to see his face in the rear-view mirror and practised suitable expressions. Jovial: How’s the lady wife, sir? Serious: I have been dragged off in important case. Puzzled and bewildered: What’s all this, sir? He decided, after having nearly run over a stray sheep that the bewildered look would be best and kept it firmly in place all the way up the stairs to Mr. Daviot’s office.
Peter Daviot was writing busily when Blair entered. Blair stood awkwardly, wishing the super would look op so that he would not lose the appropriate expression. The wind had risen again outside and bowled dismally round the square modem block of concrete that was police headquarters. A seagull perched on the ledge outside and regarded Blair with a cynical eye. Blair coughed and shuffled his feet. He felt himself becoming angry. Bugger all suitable expressions. He pulled forward a chair on the other side of the desk and sat down and folded his thick arms, his heavy features now as sulky as those of a spoilt child.
“Ah, Blair,” said Mr. Daviot at last. “This is a bad business.”
“Duggan’s murder, sir?”
Mr. Daviot threw down his gold-plated pen, a birthday present from his wife. “No, I do not mean Duggan’s murder. I mean Macbeth.”
“It’s straightforward enough, sir. He challenged a member of the public to a fight to which the whole village of Lochdubh turned out to watch, which makes him prime suspect in Duggan’s murder, so he has to go.”
“Yes, I have your report. A few thin paragraphs. Now Macbeth’s story is that he meant to give Duggan a verbal dressing down before the whole village.”
“Havers!”
“Probably. But you have produced no evidence to the contrary. You say Macbeth is a suspect. He says that before the fight was due to take place, he was in the police office, in the station, and in full view of anyone going past. Did you check this?”
“There wisnae any reason to,” howled Blair, exasperated. “Never tell me you’re going to believe that tripe about giving Duggan a talking to.”
“Listen, Blair, and listen well. I dismiss Macbeth and he demands an inquiry. In fact, I cannot dismiss him from the force, as you should well know, without a full inquiry. He will put his version of events and the villagers will be asked for their version. Who do you think they will back? Us or Macbeth? Even a Highland policeman suspended from duty pending a full inquiry gets in the press, and the press will start digging up the cases he has solved. His popularity is very high. Good God, man, do you know what Lord Farthers said about him the other day? I’m speaking about the Earl of Farthers, who is a member of our lodge. He said Macbeth was ‘one of us.’ So not only will we have the press on our backs but one of the most powerful of the Freemasons. Had you put in a proper report, got statements about Macbeth’s intention to fight before the villagers heard that he was to be dismissed, we would have had a fairly easy time getting rid of him. But I don’t know if getting rid of him anyway is such a good idea. He keeps order. He’s lazy and unorthodox, but he gets results. So we’ll just have to swallow this. Get back to Lochdubh. I do not want any clash of personalities. You and your then deal with the murder and confine Macbeth to his usual beat. But I want no more reports about him.”
“What if he murdered Duggan hisself?”
“Don’t be silly. Has the time of death been established?”
“Not yet.”
“Would you say this is a gangland killing? Tying the hands behind the back like that?”
“If it had been done in Glasgow or even here, I might have thought so,” said Blair heavily. “I’m waiting for the results o’ the autopsy. He was a big man, a powerful man. He could ha’ been drugged first and then tied up before being shot.”
“Well, we’re working on Duggan’s background. Maybe we’ll turn up something there. If the man was a known criminal, then it could have been a revenge murder. That will be all, Blair, but in future do not let your obvious dislike of Macbeth get in the way of a police investigation.”
Blair went out, went slowly down the stairs and into the men’s room, where he banged his head against the glass. He wished that someone would murder Hamish Macbeth.
? Death of a Macho Man ?
3
Murder Considered as One of the Fine Arts
—
Blair was more determined than he had ever been before to keep Hamish Macbeth off the case. But Hamish was part of the village and people gossiped to Hamish, and so villagers who had been interviewed by Blair in the DCTs usual bruising manner retreated afterwards to the comfort of Hamish’s kitchen. The first to call was Archie Maclean.
“It iss the terrible thing, Hamish,” he said crossly, “when the man who does his civic duty and reports the finding off the body should be suspected of murdering him.”
Hamish put a mug of coffee generously laced with whisky in front of the fisherman and sat down beside him at the kitchen table. “There is one thing, Archie,” said Hamish cautiously. “I have heard that you were down at the harbour with Randy the night before the murder and you were heard threatening him.”
“Och, ye’ll no’ be paying attention to a thing like that. He riled me up and it wass just the words. Hot air. Everyone says they’ll kill someone when they’re angry with that someone.”
“But that someone doesn’t usually end up dead!”
“I’m not the only one who threatened the big man.” Archie buried his nose in his mug. “I heard about the fight with Andy MacTavish.” Archie raised his head. He smoothed his sparse grey hairs over his bald patch and twisted his neck in his starched collar. “I wass thinking o’ a certain lady.”
“Come on, man. Out with it. I’ll find out soon enough.”
“I should not be blackening the lady’s name.”
“I’m getting more fascinated by the minute. Why this uncharacteristic gallantry?”
“Whit?”
“I mean it’s not like you to bother protecting a lady’s name.”
“How do ye know that?” demanded Archie wrathfully. “Let’s not quarrel,” said Hamish patiently. “You are a suspect, Archie. A lot of people will be suspects. Honest people have nothing to fear.”
“They’ve got everything to fear when a chiel like Blair is barging around accusing everyone.”
“Come on, Archie. Out with it. Who’s the lady?” Archie drained his mug and wiped his sleeve across his mouth. “Rosie Draly,” he mumbled. Hamish looked at him in surprise. “The writer!”
“Herself.”
Rosie Draly had recently bought a cottage out on the Crask road. Hamish had made a call on her when she arrived. She had not been particularly welcoming. She said she did not have much time for the police. Her car had been stolen in Glasgow and the police had not only done nothing, they had been rude.
Hamish knew that she wrote historical romances, mostly set in the Regency period. She did not take part in any of the village activities. She travelled to London quite often to see her agent. She was in her forties, small and trim with fair hair and a small, closed face. He had almost forgotten about her.
