Paul was now clicking away at Hamish and the pilot in the loch. He ran down the beach to catch pictures of Hamish landing the unconscious pilot on the beach. As Hamish wearily turned to walk up the beach, in his vest and underpants, Paul, who had moved behind him to get another shot of the pilot, suddenly saw that Hamish had a large hole in the back of his underpants. That photo was to appear on the front of a London tabloid under the heading, ARE WE PAYING OUR POLICE ENOUGH?
Tom ran up to him. “Get up there,” he shouted. “Get the Fleming woman’s face.”
Screams were sounding along the waterfront. Mrs. Freda Fleming was blind to the mayhem that was going on around her. She was staring at the mess that was Lochdubh. Paper was festooned everywhere.
She saw Hamish approaching and ran up to him, screaming, “You bastard! You did this deliberately!” As Paul gleefully raised his camera, she smacked Hamish Macbeth full across the face. With a reflex action that Hamish was to regret for a long time, he smacked her back, and she burst into noisy sobs.
¦
It was to be a long day. Geordie was under arrest. “Why?” demanded Hamish furiously. “All he did was stop a murderer from escaping.”
“Hamish,” said Jimmy patiently, “we still have no proof that Ionides murdered anyone.”
“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” said Hamish.
“You what?”
“I ordered Geordie to throw that hammer,” lied Hamish stubbornly.
“Man, do you know what you are saying? I’ll need to suspend you from your duties, and Blair will have you off the force.”
The two were in police headquarters in Strathbane.
“Get back to your police station,” said Jimmy. “We’re about to grill the Stathos woman, and you’d better pray she cracks and comes up with something.”
Priscilla called round at the police station that evening to find Hamish moodily sitting in his living room with his dog on his lap.
“I did knock,” said Priscilla.
“Sit down,” said Hamish wearily. “I’m in bad trouble.”
“But you got that pilot, and the divers fished Ionides’s corpse out of the water.”
“There’s no proof he committed either of the murders. Blair’s interviewing the pilot and that secretary. I hope one of them comes up with something. It’s the first time in my life I’ve prayed that Blair is at his nastiest. Then that Fleming woman. God, she lands in the middle of a police operation, and all she can do is scream about the mess of paper in Lochdubh. What’s that box?”
“It’s my sewing kit. Hamish, television wasn’t there but a photographer was. So television news has been showing still photographs of Geordie throwing the hammer, but there was another photograph of you on the beach with your bum hanging out of your underpants.”
Hamish covered his face with his hands. “What next?”
Priscilla laughed. “Didn’t Mrs. Macbeth always tell you to wear decent underwear in case you had an accident? Bring your stuff in and let’s go through it.”
“I am not in the mood to haff my underwear examined,” said Hamish huffily.
“Oh, go on. We’re not doing anything else. I’m afraid to tell you that Clarry is up at the hotel. I think you’ve lost a policeman.”
“What does it matter? I’ve lost my job.”
“What will you do?”
“I don’t know. I’ve got the croft and my sheep.”
“That won’t support you, and you’ll need to leave the police station. You can stay at the hotel if you like until you figure something out.”
“That’s good of you, but I think your father will have something to say about that.”
“He’s so relieved you didn’t tell the police about him that he’ll be happy to let you sleep anywhere. You didn’t, did you?”
Hamish shook his head. “I’m glad I’m popular with someone. Someone’s at the door. Could you see who it is and send them away, Priscilla?”
“Right. Wait there.”
He could hear the murmur of Priscilla’s voice and then the shutting of the kitchen door. She came back bearing a parcel and a large card. Hamish nudged Lugs off his lap and took the card and parcel. The card had a picture of an improbable Highland scene which looked more like
Hamish opened up the parcel and found himself looking down at six sets of clean underwear.
“Well, well,” said Priscilla. “I won’t be needing my sewing kit after all!”
? Death of a Dustman ?
8
—Robert Louis Stevenson
Four weeks had passed since Geordie had brought down the helicopter, and Hamish was still suspended. He had spent hours over in Strathbane being interviewed by a police inquiry team. Investigations into Ionides’s company were still going on. The pilot turned out to have a long record of violent crime. His last had been for armed robbery. He had faked an illness and escaped from the prison hospital. He was still under arrest, but remained silent.
Geordie, thanks to Hamish sticking to his story that he had ordered Geordie to bring down the helicopter, was a free man. His case had been heard at the sheriff’s court in Strathbane, and Hamish had testified that Geordie had been only acting on instructions.
Hamish had been given a rocket by the sheriff for irresponsible policing.
Clarry had worked out his notice, but was still living at the police station until such time as he considered it decent to move in with Martha.
Hamish fished the blackmailing letters out of the bottom drawer of his desk and decided to put them in the stove. The weather had turned chilly and blustery. He had lit the wood fire in the kitchen and was waiting for the wood to catch before he dropped the letters in when the phone rang.
He put the letters on the kitchen table and went to answer it. It was Jimmy Anderson at the other end of the line, sounding very excited. “He’s broken, Hamish.”
“Who?”
“The pilot, Ian Simpson. He says he wants to do a deal.”
“Oh, aye? And you don’t do deals.”
“No, but we promised him a favourable trial.”
“So what has he said?”
“He says that Ionides killed Fergus. He told Fergus he would meet him up on the grazings and pay him ten thousand pounds. He bashed his head in and then got Ian, the pilot, to go back with him in the middle of the night. They wrapped the body in one of the sheets from the hotel. They were going to dump it in the loch when they got as far as the Curries’ cottage. Ionides said, “Let’s dump the bastard in that bin. I’m sick of carrying it.””
“And then they did Angus?”
“There’s the odd thing. He stubbornly says that Angus never came near Ionides. But he says Ionides was trading drugs. That was the real reason for the hotel so far north. They thought it would be an excellent, quiet landing place. There was a raid on all his hotels during the night and they found drugs in the cellar of the one in Aberfoyle, so they’ve arrested the brother. Miss Stathos is crying and wailing and sticking to her story that she knew nothing about it. Mind you, she says he was fanatical about fishing, any kind of fishing, and was determined to get the Tommel Castle Hotel. Things look better for you, Hamish. You’re to attend a special meeting this afternoon at two o’clock.”
