Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [65]
He moved the dial, squinting down at the numbers he had written. He let out a low whistle of satisfaction when the door swung open. Inside were various letters from building contractors. It seemed as if Jamie had been giving contracts to friends for a payoff. There was a manila envelope. He pulled it out and took it over to the desk. Inside was a smaller envelope containing photographs. He slid them out. They were of Annie, either naked or wearing fishnet stockings and a suspender belt. He put them to one side and studied the rest of the contents. There was a book on bomb making.
He went back to the safe and pulled out a metal box. He took it to the desk and opened it. Inside was a cutthroat razor and bottles of chemicals. The fool, thought Hamish. The vain murderous fool! He was proud of what he had done. He probably sat in his office, gloating over his trophies.
Hamish spread all his finds on the desk, risked switching on the lights, and, taking out a small, powerful digital camera, began to photograph the evidence. Then he carefully put everything back the way it was and locked the safe.
Mr. Patel was roused at seven in the morning by Hamish hammering on the door of his flat above the shop. “What is it, Hamish?” he asked.
“I need to use that machine in the shop for printing photos.”
“At this time o’ the day?”
“It iss top secret.”
“Oh, come round to the front and I’ll let you in.”
In the shop, Hamish slid the memory card into the machine and then waited while the photos were printed off. He had told Mr. Patel not to look.
“I hope that all did ye some good,” said Mr. Patel when he had finished. “I just hope it isnae your holiday photos.”
“I’ve forgotten what a holiday’s like,” said Hamish. “I’ll take a packet o’ these manila envelopes.”
Hamish went back to the police station and, still wearing latex gloves, wrote SUPERINTENDENT DAVIOT in block capitals on an envelope, addressed it, and then put all the photographic evidence inside. He typed out a note: “Evidence from Jamie Baxter’s safe.” He steamed off an old stamp and put it on the envelope.
He couldn’t bear to post it and have to wait until it was delivered, fearing that Jamie would destroy everything before a search warrant could be issued. He went through to his bedroom, wrinkling his nose in distaste at the faint smell of sex from his bed, and rummaged under the bed where he kept a box with some disguises. He selected a black wig, glasses, a black moustache, and a cap. He changed out of his regulation boots and put on an old pair of trainers.
Lugs and Sonsie looked at him hopefully but he said, “Be good. I won’t be long.” The animals eyed him curiously as he put on his disguise.
He opened the kitchen door and peered out. Nobody was around. He got into the Volvo and drove off to Strathbane. He parked some way away from police headquarters and then walked towards the building.
To his delight, he saw a postman just getting out of his van. As the postman walked towards the building, carrying a pile of mail fastened with a rubber band, Hamish called to him. “You’ve dropped one.”
He handed the postman the envelope. “I don’t know how that could have happened,” said the postman. “But thanks.”
Hamish went back to Lochdubh, stopping on the way to strip off his disguise and the clothes. He left the car at the garage in the village. Back at the police station, he got an old oil drum out of the shed and put the disguise in it. He went in, changed into his uniform, got his forensic suit and boots, and threw them in as well. He added the clothes he had been wearing when he had broken into the Baxters’ home. On a sudden impulse he ran indoors and stripped his bed and stuffed the sheets and pillowslips on top. Then he remembered the memory card from his camera. He added that as well. He poured petrol