Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [39]
That use of her first name spurred Josie into action. “I won’t dial any more until we’ve dug down a bit,” said Hamish.
He paused occasionally to admire Josie’s diligence. He had been too hard on the lassie, he thought. After they had searched down a certain depth, he dialled again. “Hear that!” he cried triumphantly. He scrabbled down to the ringing sound, tossing filthy rubbish over his shoulder.
“Got it!” he cried at last. “Let’s get back into shelter. This is grand.” He seized hold of Josie and waltzed her round on top of the garbage.
Josie walked back to the Land Rover as if she were walking on air. “We’ll get back to Lochdubh, dry out, and I’ll get you something to eat,” said Hamish once they were in shelter again. “Let me check this phone. What was the last call he made? Here, write this down.”
Josie took out her notebook and wrote down the number. “Right,” said Hamish. “Give it to me. Let’s phone up and see who’s at the other end.”
He dialled and waited. A clear highland voice came on the line. “Town hall, Braikie,” said the voice. “Which department?”
Hamish rang off, his hazel eyes gleaming. “That was the town hall. Maybe young Percy is deeper in this than I thought.” He bagged Mark’s mobile and stripped off his pair of latex gloves.
“I’m afraid we’d better take this over to Strathbane first. I’ll blast the heater and dry us out.”
Jimmy was just about to go out when they arrived. He wrinkled his nose. “You pair smell like hell.”
Hamish held up the evidence bag. “We’ve found Mark Lussie’s mobile at the council tip. The last call he made was to the town hall. So we’re going to grab at bit to eat and get over there. How are you getting on?”
“I’ve barely started,” complained Jimmy. “Questions and questions from the big yins up to interrogate us all about how we managed to let one murder happen and one dangerous killer escape. Barry’s no loss.”
“Who inherits his money?” asked Hamish.
“Probably the state will take most of it like they always do when someone has been profiting from drugs. His only living relative is his sister, a churchy woman, who’s horrified at her brother’s criminal activities. Got to go. Give me that phone and I’ll get it over to forensics.”
Hamish and Josie drove to a restaurant in Strathbane. A woman at the next table said loudly, “The day when policemen actually took a bath seems to be long over.”
Josie dissolved into giggles.
“We really must smell something awful,” said Hamish. “After this, we’ll get back to Lochdubh and clean up. I’ve got an old uniform I can use. What about you?”
“I’ve got a spare recently,” said Josie.
They had a pleasant meal. Hamish was in high good humour. He felt the case was beginning to break at last.
Josie thought about her mad dream of drugging him. What a silly idea!
At the town hall, Hamish asked to be directed to wherever the switchboard was. He was grateful that the town hall was old-fashioned and didn’t go in for a phone tree—press one for so-and-so, press two for someone else, and so on.
The young girl at the switchboard seemed vaguely familiar. “Police,” he said. “Just a few questions. What is your name?”
“Iona Sinclair.”
“Have we met? I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth.”
“I saw you last year at the crowning of the Lammas queen. It was promised to me because Annie had been queen the year before, but she got it again which wasn’t fair.”
Iona was a tall girl in her late teens with hair as red as Hamish’s own, green eyes, and freckled skin. She had the lilting accent of the Outer Hebrides.
“We’re interested in a call that came through here to the switchboard on the evening Mark Lussie was murdered,” said Hamish.
“Well, we close at five o’clock. There were a lot of calls before then. People ask for various departments.”
“Did anyone ask for waste disposal?”
“We get a lot of those. People are always girning on about the evil dustmen, persecuting them because the waste isn’t in the proper bins.”
“Did you know Annie Fleming well?”
“I was at school with her, but she wasn’t popular with the girls. She was