Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [3]
“Oh, come on, Hamish. Let it go.”
“No! I bet forensics never examined that sidecar properly. I want to see it.”
“It’s eight o’clock, laddie.”
“Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go.”
“All right. Leave your beasts behind. They give me the shivers.”
Hamish’s “beasts” were a dog called Lugs and a wild cat called Sonsie. Jimmy should have known that Hamish would no more consider leaving them behind than he would a pair of small children.
Hamish set off driving his Land Rover while Jimmy followed in his unmarked police car.
There was a mildness in the evening air as if winter were at last releasing its grip on Sutherland. Great stars blazed above, with the towering mountains black silhouettes against the bright sky.
The head of SOCO was a beefy truculent man called Angus Forrest. “I’m packing up for the night,” he growled.
“We just want a wee look at that sweep’s sidecar,” said Jimmy.
“I was going to go over it tomorrow. Doesn’t seem much point. Open-and-shut case.”
“Won’t take us long,” said Jimmy stubbornly.
The motorcycle and sidecar were parked in a garage at the side of police headquarters. Angus switched on the overhead lights. “I’m off to the pub,” he said. “Phone me when you’ve finished. But suit up and get your gloves on.”
Jimmy and Hamish struggled into their blue forensic suits and boots. “Now,” said Hamish, his hazel eyes gleaming, “let’s see what we can find. I suppose the tyre iron and the jewellery and wallet have all been bagged up, but it’s that sidecar that interests me. We need luminol.”
“What do you think this is?” grumbled Jimmy. “The telly? Got a fingerprint kit?”
“Got it with me.”
“Okay, dust away. I’ll sit over there and watch you.”
Hamish carefully began to dust the sidecar and motorbike. He finally straightened up. “Whoever drove this wore gloves. When did Pete wear gloves?”
“When he’d just murdered someone,” said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.
“But there are no fingerprints, and the sidecar has been wiped clean.”
“Pete’s fingerprints were found on the candlestick and on the captain’s wallet.”
“Aye, you can press a dead man’s hand on the stuff. I need a damp cloth.”
“What for?”
“Never mind. I’ll use my handkerchief.” Hamish ran it under a tap and wrung it out. Then he bent into the sidecar and gently dabbed at the floor.
He straightened up. “There’s blood on the floor.”
“Aye, well, laddie, there would be. The captain’s blood.”
“What is going on here?”
Superintendent Daviot appeared in the doorway. “Macbeth, you are not a member of SOCO or forensics. How dare you tamper with evidence?”
“Sir,” said Hamish, “there’s blood in the sidecar, and I think you’ll find it belongs to Pete.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
Once more, Hamish expounded his theory.
“I want you to get out of here and leave it to the experts,” snapped Daviot.
“I don’t think they were even going to bother,” said Hamish. “It’s dangerous to let the real murderer go free.”
“Are you trying to tell me how to do my job?”
Hamish raised his hands. “A brilliant man like yourself? Oh, no, sir, wasn’t I chust saying to Jimmy that a brain like Superintendent Daviot’s could never be fooled by faked evidence.”
Daviot shifted uneasily. He considered Hamish Macbeth a maverick but one who had an awkward way of getting things right.
“Phone Forrest and get him back here,” he said.
When Angus appeared, he was ordered to take samples of the blood from the sidecar and get the DNA checked as soon as possible. “And check those fingerprints on the wallet,” said Hamish