Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [46]
The story was in all the newspapers the next morning. The comic side of it was fully exposed.
Here was a dreaded hit man who had gone to sleep in a police station, been attacked by a cat, run through the village naked, and escaped dressed as a woman.
Only Josie knew what had happened. She thanked her stars she had been wearing gloves when she had left the whisky.
Roger sat in his dingy flat and cursed his luck. Everything had been left behind: his false papers, false credit cards, mobile phone, and prized deer rifle, not to mention his car.
Two days later, he looked out of his window and saw a low black Mercedes stopping outside his flat. His heart sank as he saw crime boss Big Shug climbing out of the car.
Roger shoved a pistol in the waistband of his trousers and went to open the door.
Big Shug looked like a prosperous Glasgow businessman from his well-tailored coat to his shining shoes.
“Been reading about me, have ye?” asked Roger. “Come in.”
“I don’t go much by what the papers say,” said Big Shug. “But I’ve got a difficult job and I want you to off someone for me.”
Roger said cautiously, “Are you sure the person you want to off isnae me?”
“Come on, laddie. When have I ever let you down? This is a delicate one. It’s a woman. Anything against that?”
“Not a thing.”
“Why did you kill Barry?”
“He would have talked and the drugs would have been traced right back to you.”
“Aye, well, let’s get going.”
“Now?”
“No time like the present.”
“Who is she?”
“Tell you when we get there.”
Big Shug sat in the front with his driver and Roger sat in the back with one of his henchmen. No introductions were made. The Mercedes slid smoothly off.
“Where are we going?” asked Roger as the car began to drive along the Dumbarton dual carriageway.
“Relax, laddie. A wee bit before Helensburgh.”
A thin mist was hovering over the Gairloch as the Mercedes slid into a deserted building site. “Where is she?” asked Roger as he got out of the car.
“Along presently.”
Big Shug whipped a gun out and shot Roger in the stomach. “That’s one for Barry,” he said. “He was a pal o’ mine and he never would ha’ talked.”
He marched up to where Roger lay writhing on the ground and put two bullets into his head.
“Right, lads,” he said. “Get to work. This site’s held up forever waiting planning permission. Nobody’ll be along here for ages.”
His two henchmen dug a grave in the soft ground, dropped the body in, filled in the hole, and patted it flat with the backs of their spades.
They all got into the Mercedes and drove off.
Two little boys crouched behind a rickety wall of planks, having seen the whole thing. Rory Mackenzie was eight years old and his brother, Diarmuid, ten. “Do you think yon was real?” whispered Rory. “Maybe they was filming Taggart.” He was referring to a popular Scottish television crime series.
“I think we’d better tell the police anyway.” Diarmuid took out his much-prized mobile phone and dialled 999.
Chapter Eight
Love is like a dizziness,
It winna let a poor body
Gang about his bizziness.
—James Hogg
The murders of Mark Lussie and Annie Fleming had disappeared from the newspapers and from any of Strathbane’s investigations. Hamish greeted the news of Roger Burton’s murder with relief. It was Strathclyde’s case, and, as he alone was still determined to solve the local murders, he was happy to let them get on with it.
Strathbane was a violent town, and the police were used to having unsolved murders on their books.
Josie begged leave to visit her mother, and Hamish let her go. Flora McSween welcomed her daughter and asked how her “romance” with Hamish was getting on.
Josie said that Hamish had taken her to a local