Death of a Sweep - M. C. Beaton [67]
But she was always interested in his work and it helped him to go over the cases and to speculate if and when Prosser would arrive.
‘Surely he’s out of the country by now,’ said Priscilla. ‘It would be madness to come back here.’
‘He is mad. Only a psychopath goes around killing people the way he does, and he has all the extreme vanity of the psychopath. Oh, well, I’ve got a more immediate worry: they’ve decided to billet another constable on me and I’ve got to put the stuff back in to the spare room.’
Prosser picked the lock on the police-station front door, not knowing it was hardly ever used; Hamish and the villagers used the kitchen door. He pushed and strained and finally got it open. He looked up and down. No one around. He entered the room and fell over several piles of junk on the floor. Hamish had dumped some of the stuff from the spare room on to the living-room floor. Where were these damn animals?
He went into the kitchen and risked switching on the light. Lugs stood glaring at him out of his blue eyes.
‘Goodbye, doggy,’ said Prosser with a grin and raised his revolver.
Where the cat came from, he did not know. Sonsie flew straight at him. She was a big wild cat and the onslaught knocked him off-balance and he fell backwards on to the floor. He screamed as the cat bit into his neck, right into the carotid artery. He tried to seize the cat but she leapt back. Blood was pumping out of the wound on his neck. He staggered to his feet, looking for his gun, but the dog sank his teeth into his leg. The cat jumped on his back and began clawing at his head.
His eyes grew dim and he fell to the floor, blood pumping from his neck.
Hamish and Priscilla were just finishing their meal when Willie Lamont, the waiter, approached the table, looking worried.
‘Sonsie and Lugs are outside and Sonsie’s covered in blood.’
Hamish, followed by Priscilla, rushed out of the restaurant. Hamish knelt down by his cat. Sonsie gave a deep throaty purr. ‘Get me a sponge and water,’ he shouted over his shoulder to Willie, who had followed them out.
When Willie reappeared with a sponge and a bowl of water, Hamish gently sponged the cat’s fur and heaved a sigh of relief. ‘She’s not injured. I’d better get back to the station.’
‘Maybe you’ve got rats,’ suggested Willie.
‘I’ll see,’ said Hamish, thinking, Not with that amount of blood.
He and Priscilla quickly walked to the police station. Hamish unlocked the door, noticing that the kitchen light was on. ‘Stay back,’ he said to Priscilla. ‘It might be Prosser.’
He went to the henhouse where he had hidden a rifle and brought it out, following by the startled clucking of his hens.
‘Wait here,’ said Hamish. He swung open the kitchen door.
A man was lying there in a large pool of blood. Hamish felt for a pulse and found none. He bent down and ripped off the beard and moustache. Prosser.
He went out to Priscilla. ‘It’s Prosser. He’s dead.’
She walked into the kitchen and turned white at the sight that met her eyes.
‘Better phone Strathbane,’ she said.
‘No!’ shouted Hamish. ‘I can’t do that.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because they’ll soon find out my cat killed him and they’ll have Sonsie put down.’
‘What? For getting rid of a serial murderer?’
‘Blair will see to it. Damn. I’ve got to move this body. He’s bound to have a stolen car. I’ve got to get rid of it as well. I don’t want it found near the police station. You guard the body and don’t let anyone in.’ Hamish went into the office and came back wearing a pair of latex gloves. He gingerly searched in Prosser’s pockets until he found a set of car keys.
When he had gone, Priscilla felt she could not bear the sight of the body and found a travel rug in Hamish’s bedroom and threw it over the horrible sight that was Prosser’s body.
After what seemed an age, Hamish came back and said, ‘There’s a vehicle parked behind the old hotel. I’ll get rid of it later. He must have