Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [51]
When he had finished, he returned everything to the safe. Before he closed the door, he stared at all that money. He took two plastic bags out of his pocket and stuffed both bags full. May as well make it look like a robbery, he thought, because Prosser would discover the wires on his burglar alarm had been cut.
He let himself out and walked back to the flat. What do I do now, he wondered. If I just disappear, they’ll get hold of David Harrison and sweat my real identity out of him.
He phoned David Harrison. A sleepy David answered the phone. Hamish rapidly explained the situation. “Could you and your family disappear for a week?” he asked.
“I was about to take a holiday. But why?”
“Because if I clear off, these villains will be after you to find out my real identity.”
“What an exciting life you do lead,” said David. “But keep in touch. I’ll want to know when it’s safe to come back.”
“They’re all in it,” said Hamish. “I was with Bromley and Prosser but one of the others must have gone to Drim and tried to set the captain’s house on fire.”
Hamish snatched two hours’ sleep and then packed up everything. He took the pads out of his cheeks and ripped off his fake moustache. He found a pair of sharp scissors and hacked off all his hair, then shaved his scalp. He pulled his cap over his bald head and quietly let himself out. He hailed a passing taxi and asked to be driven to the airport, not relaxing until he saw Edinburgh disappearing under the plane’s wings.
He took a taxi all the way from Inverness airport to Lochdubh, guiltily paying the fare with notes he had stolen from the safe, hoping they would not turn out to be forged.
Once more, he printed off his photographs on the machine in Patel’s. Wearing gloves, he put the pile of photographs in a plain envelope. Then he drove to Strathbane.
Jimmy was sitting sleepily at his desk. “I want you to say this lot landed on your desk and you don’t know who gave them to you,” whispered Hamish. “There’s enough in there for you to pull Prosser in. Now go on as if you’ve summoned me and demand to know where the hell I was.”
“But I told them about a member of your family being ill!”
“Shout that you phoned my mother and that they were all well and call me a skiving bastard or something like that.”
Prosser strode up and down his office in a rage. “Before I call the police,” he shouted at Bromley, “take the ledgers and correspondence and lock them in your safe.”
“You can’t phone the police,” said Bromley miserably.
“Why the hell not?”
“That money was never declared to the tax man. They’ll ask questions about it.”
Prosser clutched his hair. “Phone Sanders and Castle and get them here.”
“What about Diarmuid Jenkins?”
“He’s due here soon. May as well see how much we can get out of him.”
By one o’clock when Bromley had returned after putting the ledgers and correspondence in his safe, Prosser was beside himself with rage. “He hasn’t shown and David Harrison is nowhere to be found.”
Prosser went suddenly quiet. He sat down behind his desk. He said slowly, “I think this Diarmuid is behind all this. Look, he chats us up, he says he’s going to invest, and yet he doesn’t turn up. I’m going to phone round all the hotels and see if I can trace him.”
But no hotel in Edinburgh had heard of Diarmuid Jenkins or had any guest answering his description.
By evening, Castle and Sanders arrived and learned about the robbery. “Thank your stars it was just the money he was after,” said Sanders. “Those ledgers are dynamite. Why the hell didn’t you keep them in a safe-deposit box?”
“Why the hell don’t you shut your mouth or I’ll shut it for you permanently,” said