Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [4]
“See to it,” said Daviot. “On your way, Macbeth. Anderson, I want a word with you.”
As Hamish left, he could hear Angus’s protesting voice raised in anger. He looked at his watch. It was too late to call on Milly Davenport. He would go and see her in the morning. Why had the captain left his wallet behind? Or had it been taken from his body?
But on the following morning, Hamish received a call summoning him to police headquarters. On his arrival in Daviot’s office, he was told he was suspended pending enquiries into his unorthodox behaviour by investigating a crime scene when he did not have the necessary forensic skills.
“You are so anxious to close the case, sir,” said Hamish angrily, “that nothing would have been properly inspected.”
“Don’t be insolent and get out of here before I fire you,” said Daviot.
Hamish met Jimmy Anderson on his way out. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, Jimmy.”
“Not me. I know when to grovel and crawl when necessary.”
“Do you think they won’t bother with the DNA?”
“Oh, they’ll bother all right. Blair’s rubbing his fat hands and demanding a rush on it. He’s so confident of proving you wrong. Anyway, you’re in deep doo and I’d suggest you think about packing up your sheep. And you’re not to speak to the press. They’re all over the place.”
Jimmy watched as Hamish walked sadly away. He felt in sudden need of a drink. He went to the local pub near headquarters and ordered a double whisky. He turned and surveyed the bar; his eyes lighted on Tam Tamworth, nicknamed “the pig,” because with his large ears and beefy face, short nose and pursed lips, he did look piggy.
Jimmy strolled over to him. “I’m not supposed to speak to the press,” he said in a low voice, “but see if you can use this. Mention my name and I’ll have to kill you.”
“So is it about thon murder?” asked Tam.
“Aye, thanks to our Hamish Macbeth, it may turn out to be two murders. Say you happened to have been passing the garage at the side o’ headquarters last night, this is what you heard.” He rapidly described Hamish’s suspicions, saying that if Macbeth turned out to be right, he should be getting a commendation rather than suspension.
“Man, what a story,” said Tam. “I’m off. I can get it into the morning paper.”
Thanks to an excellent sports section, the Strathbane Journal had a good circulation. Daviot read it next morning with a sinking heart. Blair went out and got drunk, praying between drinks that the DNA would prove Hamish wrong. Headquarters was besieged by press and television demanding a statement. Hamish Macbeth was nowhere to be found. He had packed up his camping equipment, taken his pets, and set off to hide out in the moors.
The previous forensic team had all been sacked because of too many reports of drunkenness. A new laboratory had been built and an expert from Glasgow coaxed up to head the new team. They worked long hours and at last had a full report. The blood in the sidecar belonged to Pete Ray. The fingerprints on the wallet and candlesticks had obviously been put there after the man was dead because it looked as if fingers had been simply pressed down on the items. Pete would have grasped the candlesticks, not put a neat set of fingerprints on them. His neck had not been broken by a fall; someone had broken it by twisting his head back. There were signs that Pete’s body had then been stuffed into the sidecar.
And there was worse. Angus Forrest had said there was no use bothering forensics with the motorcycle and sidecar. It was an open-and-shut case, in his opinion, and his superiors had told him to wrap it up fast.
Jimmy was told to get hold of Hamish Macbeth, return him to his duties, and keep away from the press. Phoning Hamish on his mobile, Jimmy gave him the good news. “But you’re to keep away for another week,” he said, “until Daviot thinks the press have stopped looking for you.”
“Suits me,” said Hamish laconically, turning sausages on a frying pan balanced on a camp stove outside