“Blair is jumping on the idea. ‘What proof?’ he asks Daviot. ‘Jist some intuition of some highland loon.’ Daviot is anxious not to tread on the toes of another police force. Strathclyde police are investigating, he says, and they are very efficient and that’s the end of that.”
“I swear to God,” said Hamish passionately, “that one of those four men is involved, if not all.”
“Hamish, calm down. Ever since that business with your friend Angela, you’ve been turning your mind away from the locals.”
“Maybe,” said Hamish with sudden mildness. “Could be.”
After Jimmy had left, Hamish phoned Angela. “I’m thinking of taking a wee trip tomorrow,” he began. But Angela interrupted crossly, saying, “No, I cannot keep an eye on your beasties. I am due in Edinburgh tomorrow. More discussion on the launch of the book.”
“Now, there’s an odd thing,” said Hamish. “I was just thinking of a trip to Edinburgh myself. Could you give me a lift?”
“Yes, I’d be glad of the company. I’ll be leaving at eight in the morning.”
“That’s grand. I’ll be outside your house then. We can share the driving.”
Hamish then phoned Willie Lamont at the Italian restaurant and asked if he would periodically check on the dog and cat the following day.
“I’ll do that,” said Willie.
“And I’ll leave food for them, so don’t be feeding them. Lugs is getting a bit fat.”
“Aye, they’re a rare pair of goormitts.”
“Gourmets.”
“Whateffer.”
It was a lovely morning when Hamish walked along the waterfront to Angela’s home. A delicate mist was rising from the loch, where the calm waters were broken by a couple of seals.
He wished with all his heart that the murders could be solved and leave him free to return to his old ways of lazing around and enjoying the scenery.
Angela was already sitting in her car. “New car?” asked Hamish, sitting in the front seat of the Ford Escort.
“New secondhand,” said Angela, moving off.
The Currie sisters watched them go from behind their lace curtains. “You don’t think…?” asked Jessie.
“I wouldn’t put anything past thon policeman,” said Nessie. “He’s a philanderer.” They decided to go along to Patel’s shop and spread a bit of speculative gossip.
Angela’s publisher was fortuitously situated in the Royal Mile. Because the famous street was a pedestrian area, Angela found a car park near the Cowgate and they walked together up the High Street, as the Royal Mile was also called. Angela’s publisher had offices in the Grassmarket. Hamish agreed to meet her at four in the afternoon. Angela had said she would be having a working lunch in her publisher’s offices. Hamish, as he headed for the Canongate, found he was very hungry. He found a small trendy café which, unfortunately for his rather debased food tastes, turned out to be vegetarian. He reminded himself severely that it was time he switched to eating healthy food and ordered vegetable soup followed by cauliflower and cheese.
Then he left the café and found the address where the prostitute had been murdered.
He walked into the close and then up to the tenement. Like Betty, he found that everyone seemed to be out except for a man who lived under the prostitute’s flat.
Hamish produced his warrant card and then asked politely, “May I come in?”
It was the same balding, black-eyed man that Betty had seen. But Hamish did not know that.
“No,” he said curtly. “I’m busy.”
Hamish raised his voice to a near shout. “I am investigating the murder of Betty Close.”
The man grabbed his arm and practically pulled him into the flat. “All right, all right,” he said.
Hamish walked past him into a narrow corridor. He shut the door. “In here,” he said. He opened a door into a living room. It was a strangely sterile room: black three-piece leather suite, low glass coffee table, one huge flat-screen TV and stereo system, but no books or pictures.
“What is your name?” asked Hamish.
“John Dean. Why aren’t you in uniform?”
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth from Lochdubh. I happened to be visiting Edinburgh and thought I would make some enquiries. Did you speak to Betty Close?”
“Who’s she?”
Hamish’s hazel eyes narrowed. “Man, it’s been in all the papers. She was a television researcher.”
“Oh, I mind. The wee lassie that was found in the Gareloch. Shouldn’t you be over there?”
“You haven’t answered my question. And there was only a head-and-shoulders picture of her published in the newspapers, so how do you know she was wee?”
“It’s just an expression.”
“What do you do for a living, Mr. Dean?”
“I’m retired.”
“From what?”
“I owned a disco, Dancing Dirty, down in the Grassmarket.”
“You’re in your… fifties? Bit young to retire if it was your own business.”
He sighed. “I wish you’d mind yours. I was bought out.”
“Who bought you out?”
“Scots Entertainment PLC.”
“And where will I find them?”
“Enough!” he shouted. “Either arrest me and charge me with something or get the hell out of here.”
“You are behaving very suspiciously.”
“Get out!”
Hamish left the flats, went into the nearest shop, and asked if he could look at an Edinburgh telephone directory. Scots Entertainment had offices in Leith Walk. He set off in that direction.
He finally located it with some difficulty because the offices were not actually in Leith Walk itself but in a tenement in a side street. There was a brass plaque on the wall with the name of the company. Hamish walked up the old stone stairs and located the offices on the second floor. He pushed open the door, went in, and blinked at the vision sitting behind the reception desk.
The receptionist was an exquisite blonde wearing a simple black dress and pearls. She had blue eyes in a smooth unlined face. She opened her mouth which was delicately painted pink and said, “Yeah, whit dae ye want?” in a guttural Glaswegian accent.
“I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth. May I be having a wee word wi’ your boss?”
“Naw. He’s on holiday in the Maldives.”
“And who is standing in for him?”
“Naebody, copper. Push off.”
“You sound as if you’d had experience with the police,” said Hamish, “otherwise you wouldn’t be so damn rude.”
“I’m no’ paid to be nice. Take a hike.”
Hamish went to a café across Leith Walk where he could sit at the window and get a clear view of the entrance to the offices. The day wore on but no one appeared. Finally, he glanced at his watch and realised that if he did not hurry he would be late to meet Angela. He would need to return home and see if he could get Jimmy interested enough to investigate the background of Scots Entertainment.
As he started walking towards the Royal Mile, he had an uncanny feeling that he was being followed. He whipped around several times but could see no one sinister. He speeded up until he was running fast, threading his way agilely through the crowd. He dived into a doorway, fished out a small camera, and waited. Eventually, he saw a burly man hurrying past. Hamish ran after him, past him, swung around and took a photograph of him, and then ran on. The man pounded after him but was no match for Hamish’s speed, for Hamish had won many prizes as a hill runner. He lost the man in the closes off the Mile and then circled back to the parking place where Angela was already waiting for him.
“You’re all sweaty, Hamish,” said Angela.
“I was running late,” said Hamish, settling himself into the passenger seat. “I wish you’d get a bigger car, Angela. My knees are up to my chin.”
“Then get your own car.”