Death of a Chimney Sweep - M. C. Beaton [52]
They all started as a loud knocking came at the street door and a stentorian voice shouted, “Police! Open up!”
“We’re blown,” said Prosser. “Follow me.”
He pressed a button in the wood panelling, and a door slid open. They followed him down a narrow staircase which led into a weedy garden at the back. He opened a gate in the garden wall. Outside in the lane was parked a four-wheel drive. They all piled in and sped off.
“All gone,” said Jimmy wearily the next day when he called on Hamish. “But we had search warrants for their offices. Prosser owned Scots Entertainment, not to mention other suspicious companies, and Bromley owns Timothy’s in Guildford. But as to the murders, it’s all too circumstantial. They hadn’t time to clear out any of their bank accounts in this country, but they’ve probably got money stashed abroad. We hoped if we’d got them all that one of them would crack and turn Queen’s evidence to get off.”
“I hate this Queen’s evidence,” said Hamish. “I remember a case where two boys murdered an old granny for the few coins in her purse. One held down her head while the other sawed it off. The one who’d held down her head turned Queen’s evidence and walked free.”
“We’ve frozen their bank accounts,” said Jimmy.
Hamish sighed. “They’ve probably got money all over the world. I wonder if we’ll ever catch them. It was vanity on Prosser’s part, keeping those accounts in his safe. I bet he liked to gloat over them. Then along comes Davenport and cons him out of a large chuck of money. There’s no record of how much. I bet it was in cash, too.”
Chapter Ten
A direful death indeed they had
That would put any parent mad
But she was more than usual calm
She did not give a single damn
—Marjory Fleming
Angela Brodie sat miserably in front of a table of her books in a Glasgow bookshop. As she was damned as a literary writer, interest in her had flared and died even though her book reviews were excellent. In the past hour, she had only signed three books. To make matters worse, she had to share her signing with a well-known detective writer of the slash ’em, torture ’em, and sodomise ’em genre whose queue stretched out across the shop.
I’ve been nominated for the Haggart, thought Angela. My sales are respectable. I’ve got a contract to write two more. I think ambition is some sort of pernicious infection.
She looked up. A woman with a familiar face was smiling down at her. “Would you sign, please? Just your signature.”
Angela signed her name. “Don’t I know you?”
The woman leaned forward and whispered: “I’m one of the booksellers. It’s a shame there aren’t more people.”
Oh, Hamish Macbeth, thought Angela. Lack of ambition is a truly good thing to have.
She suddenly gathered up her belongings and walked straight out of the bookshop, blinking in the sunshine of Buchanan Street. “I’m going home,” she muttered. “I’m going back to my old life.” A man eyed her nervously and gave her a wide berth.
Milly Davenport was working in the garden, humming a tune as she dug the spade into what was once a flower bed, determined to make it bloom again.
The phone in the house rang shrilly. Milly hesitated only a moment. Tam usually answered all calls for her. She ran to answer it. An angry voice shouted down the line before she could even say, “Hullo.”
“Harcourt here,” said the voice. “Look, Tam, we know you’ve been romancing thon widow woman for the background stuff but you’re spending too much time in Drim and there’s work to be done here. There was no need to actually get engaged to the woman. She could sue you for breach o’ promise when she finds out you were just using her. Also, you missed the story about those four men fleeing the country. Get your sorry arse in gear now!”
The phone was slammed down at the other end.
Milly slowly replaced the receiver. She should have known, she thought. Never trust a reporter. She didn’t know where Tam was. He had said he wouldn’t be back until the following day.
She wearily walked back into the garden and picked up the spade. She would dig and dig, hoping the physical