Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [66]
He was suddenly exhausted, and that exhaustion brought back unhappy memories of waking up next to Josie. When everything in the oil drum had burnt down to black ash, he went indoors. He put his head down on the kitchen table and fell asleep.
He was awakened three hours later by the shrilling of the phone. He struggled to his feet and went to answer it. It was Jimmy. “Hamish, we’ve got evidence on Jamie Baxter. We’re heading over there with a warrant. Want to be in at the kill?”
“I’ll be there as quick as I can.”
“You weren’t breaking and entering last night by any chance?”
“Would I ever? See you soon.”
Cora was driving as the black BMW moved into the Baxters’ street. “Wake up, Jamie,” she said, nudging her husband in the passenger seat. “What are all these policemen doing outside our house? Oh, stop them! They’re about to break the door down!”
But Daviot had seen their car arriving and told the men with the battering ram to wait.
Jamie got slowly out of the car, followed by his wife. “What is going on here?” he demanded.
Daviot handed him a search warrant. “Open up,” he said. “You wait here, Mrs. Baxter. A policewoman will look after you.”
Hamish drove up just as Jamie was being ushered into his home. Cora looked at him, her eyes blazing with hatred. “You!” she spat out.
He walked into the house and straight up the stairs to the office. Daviot was standing in front of the safe, flanked by Blair. “Open it!” he ordered Jamie.
Jamie gave a grin like a rictus and patted his pockets. “I lost the combination. I meant to get on to the company, and—”
“Stop havering, man,” yelled Blair. “Open the damn thing or we can all wait here till I get someone to blast it open.”
Jamie’s shoulders sagged. He twisted the dial, and the safe swung open. He stood, head hanging, as Daviot went through the contents. He held up the cutthroat razor.
“If I might have a look,” said Hamish.
“Get back to your sheep and leave this tae the experts,” said Blair.
“What is it, Macbeth?” asked Daviot as Hamish drew on a pair of latex gloves and took out a powerful magnifying glass. He studied the razor. “There’s a bit o’ blood just between the handle and the blade,” said Hamish. “If you get that examined, you’ll probably find it’s Percy Stane’s.”
Daviot charged Jamie with three murders. He was led outside. He saw his wife and screamed, “You bitch! You told them!”
Daviot said wearily to Blair, “Charge Mrs. Baxter with being an accomplice. Take her in for questioning.”
Jimmy drew Hamish aside. “Was it you that sent the photos?”
“What photos?” asked Hamish. “Listen, put in a word for wee Josie. If it hadnae been for her sharp eyes, I’d never have got on to Jamie.”
“Are you coming back to Strathbane for the interviews?”
“No, I’m going back home. Thank God, it’s all over,” said Hamish Macbeth, blissfully unaware that trouble of another sort was looming on his horizon.
When he got back to the police station, he phoned the forensic lab and spoke to Bruce. “Have you got my results?”
Bruce had just been phoned to stand by for a rush job on the razor. Why should he bother with a pillock like Hamish? So he said, “We checked them. Nothing at all.”
“Nothing!”
“Clean as a whistle.”
Hamish rang off and stared miserably into space. He realised that he had recently come to the conclusion that Josie had drugged him. How else would he have gone to bed with her?
Flora was worried about her daughter. Josie kept mostly to her room, playing dreary pop tunes over and over again. She did not know that Josie was waiting in dread for the results of Hamish’s tests.
So that when her mother climbed the stairs to tell her Hamish was on the phone, she turned chalk white. But she decided she had better get it over with.
She went slowly down the stairs and picked up the phone. “Hullo,” she said in a shaky voice.
“Good news,” said Hamish. “We’ve cleared up the murders and it’s all thanks to you. We got Baxter this morning. When are you coming back?”
“Have you had the result of those tests?”
“Yes, I got them and there’s