Death of a Valentine - M. C. Beaton [84]
“Oh, calm down and give me a dram,” said Jimmy.
Hamish poured him a measure of whisky. “It’s like this,” he said. “Davenport tells the wife that he is going out for a walk and if anyone asks for him to say he’s gone abroad.”
“You’ve been hacking into the police computers again,” accused Jimmy.
Hamish ignored that remark and went on: “So say this person meets him and they walk back to the house. This person quarrels with Davenport and bashes his head in wi’ a tyre iron, and then like a bad elf, down the chimney and out pops Pete. It’s one of thae old-fashioned chimneys with climbing rungs inside from the days when the sweep sent a boy up. Pete could get up there himself. He was all skin and bone. The murderer kills him, takes a few objects to make it look as if Pete was a robber as well, gets him in the sidecar and goes off over the moors to fake the whole thing. Returns to the house and searching for something he wants, can’t find it and in a rage he stuffs the captain up the chimney, hoping it’ll be sometime before the body is found.”
“Oh, come on, Hamish. Let it go.”
“No! I bet forensic never examined that sidecar properly. I want to see it.”
“It’s eight o’clock, laddie.”
“Come on, Jimmy. Let’s go.”
“All right. Leave your beasts behind. They give me the shivers.”
Hamish’s “beasties” were a dog called Lugs and a wild cat called Sonsie. Jimmy should have known that Hamish would no more consider leaving them behind than he would a pair of small children.
Hamish set off driving his Land Rover while Jimmy followed in his unmarked police car.
There was a mildness in the evening air as if winter was at last releasing its grip on Sutherland. Great stars blazed above with the towering mountains’ black silhouettes against the bright sky.
The head of SOCO was a beefy truculent man called Angus Forrest. “I’m packing up for the night,” he growled.
“We just want a wee look at that sweep’s sidecar,” said Jimmy.
“I was going to go over it tomorrow. Doesn’t seem much point. Open and shut case.”
“Won’t take us long,” said Jimmy stubbornly.
The motorcycle and sidecar were parked in a garage at the side of police headquarters. Angus switched on the overhead lights. “I’m off to the pub,” he said. “Phone me when you’ve finished. But suit up and get your gloves on.”
Jimmy and Hamish struggled into their blue forensic suits and boots. “Now,” said Hamish, his hazel eyes gleaming. “Let’s see what we can find. I suppose the tyre iron and the jewellery and wallet have all been bagged up but it’s that sidecar that interests me. We need luminol,” said Hamish.
“What do you think this is?” grumbled Jimmy. “The telly? Got a fingerprint kit?”
“Got it with me.”
“Okay, dust away. I’ll sit over there and watch you.”
Hamish carefully began to dust the sidecar and motorbike. He finally straightened up. “Whoever drove this wore gloves. When did Pete wear gloves?”
“When he’d just murdered someone,” said Jimmy, stifling a yawn.
“But there are no fingerprints and the sidecar has been wiped clean.”
“Pete’s fingerprints were found on the candlestick and on the captain’s wallet.”
“Aye, you can press a dead man’s hand on the stuff. I need a damp cloth.”
“What for?”
“Never mind. I’ll use my handkerchief.” Hamish ran it under a tap and wrung it out. Then he bent into the sidecar and gently dabbed at the floor.
He straightened up. “There’s blood on the floor.”
“Aye, well, laddie, there would be. The captain’s blood.”
“What is going on here?”
Superintendent Daviot appeared in the doorway. “Macbeth, you are not a member of SOCO or forensics. How dare you tamper with evidence?”
“Sir,” said Hamish, “there’s blood in the sidecar and I think you’ll find it belongs to Pete.”
“What are you trying to tell me?”
Once more, Hamish expounded his theory.
“I want you to get out of here and leave it to the experts,” snapped Daviot.
“I don’t think they were even going to bother,” said Hamish. “It’s dangerous to let the real murderer go free.”
“Are you trying to tell