Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [47]
“Months,” said John wearily. “The chemo didn’t work. I’ve come home to die.”
“How long have you got?”
“Weeks, maybe months if I’m lucky.” There was an oxygen tank beside his chair. John fumbled with it and attached tubes to his nose.
“Why didn’t you tell me, man? I don’t see a computer.”
“Fact is, Hamish, I never learned how to use a computer and my old associates, them that aren’t dead, couldn’t help me.”
“But the wasted time? You should have said something. Why didn’t you?”
“I did try my best. It took my mind off my troubles. I felt important. I told the neighbours I was working for the police.”
“Are you getting home help?”
“Yes, I’ve got a carer. She’s off at the shops and the doctor calls regularly.”
There was silence. The oxygen machine sent out a rhythmic clicking sound. John lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Hamish curbed his temper. He could hardly shout about the wasted time, not when the poor man was dying.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll be off.”
John opened his eyes and said faintly, “Do you think there is a God?”
“Maybe,” said Hamish, but once outside he muttered to himself, “Not right now, I don’t.”
Hamish drove to police headquarters in Strathbane, confident that at least he would not run into Blair as, last heard, the man had still been suspended. Jimmy was not around so Hamish went to Jimmy’s favourite pub and found the detective sitting at a table in the corner.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” snapped Hamish, who was still furious over the time John McFee had wasted.
“I’m on my break,” said Jimmy mildly. “Sit down and stop looming over me.”
“Any news on Scots Entertainment?”
“It’s controlled by a company registered in the Ukraine. That’s as far as we’ve got. How’s your expert getting on?”
Hamish told him about John McFee.
“Poor auld sod,” said Jimmy. “Never mind. Your telly appeal has galvanised the experts and we should get something soon, but thae shell companies are the devil.”
Hamish sat down, removed his cap, and put it on the table. “I’ve been thinking, Jimmy.”
“Bad sign. Have a drink.”
“I’m driving. I’ve been thinking that say those four men were involved and got cheated out of some really serious money. It must have been some sort of big scam, and I think the clue lies in Edinburgh. Maybe it was something other than that gold mine. Now, I mind there’s a businessmen’s club there, called the Merlin. I wish I could get in there.”
“Aye, and if one of the famous four is there as well and spots you, you might not get back to Lochdubh in one piece.”
“I could go in disguise. I’m a rare hand at the disguises.”
Jimmy looked cynically at Hamish’s flaming red hair. “I could spot ye a mile off. Forget it, Hamish. Remember the tongue twister? The Leith police dismisseth us? It’ll be nothing to what Edinburgh police’ll do if you poach on their territory. There’s already been rumblings about you snooping around the Canongate and Scots Entertainment without telling them. They learned about that somehow.”
“Just an idea,” said Hamish vaguely. “Let me know as soon as you get anything.”
Back at the police station, he phoned David Harrison, who owned a large factory outside Edinburgh which manufactured goods for the tourist trade. David had once been on holiday in Lochdubh, and they had spent some time fishing together.
Hamish explained that he’d like to disguise himself as a wealthy businessman, Scottish but visiting from Canada, to get an entrée to the Merlin Club. “I could take you along tomorrow for lunch and get you booked in as a temporary member,” said David. “I’m busy at the moment, but meet me there and tell me all about it tomorrow.”
When he had rung off, Hamish rang Elspeth. “We’re just about to leave,” she said.
“I want the services of your make-up artist,” said Hamish. He rapidly told her his plan.
“That sounds exciting. We’ll hang on. I’ll tell them it’s for amateur theatricals.”
At the hotel, he spoke to the manager first. “Does Priscilla’s uncle, Bartholomew Smythe, still keep some of his stuff here?”
“Aye, it’s in a trunk in the basement.”