“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 me how to do my job?”
Hamish raised his hands. “A brilliant man like yourself? Oh, no, sir, wasn’t I chust saying to Jimmy that a brain like Superintendent Daviot’s could never be fooled by faked evidence.”
Daviot shifted uneasily. He considered Hamish Macbeth a maverick but one who had an awkward way of getting things right.
“Phone Forrest and get him back here,” he said.
When Angus appeared, he was ordered to take samples of the blood from the sidecar and get the DNA checked as soon as possible. “And check those fingerprints on the wallet,” said Hamish eagerly, “and see if they look genuine or if a dead man’s hand could have been used to make the marks.”
“See to it,” said Daviot. “On your way, Macbeth. Anderson, I want a word with you.”
As Hamish left, he could hear Angus’s protesting voice raised in anger. He looked at his watch. It was too late to call on Milly Davenport. He would go and see her in the morning. Why had the captain left his wallet behind? Or had it been taken from his body?
But on the following morning, Hamish received a call summoning him to police headquarters. On his arrival in Daviot’s office, he was told he was suspended pending enquiries into his unorthodox behaviour by investigating a crime scene when he did not have the necessary forensic skills.
“You are so anxious to close the case, sir,” said Hamish angrily, “that nothing would have been properly inspected.”
“Don’t be insolent and get out of here before I fire you,” said Daviot.
Hamish met Jimmy Anderson on his way out. “I hope I didn’t get you into trouble, Jimmy.”
“Not me. I know when to grovel and crawl when necessary.”
“Do you think they won’t bother with the DNA?”
“Oh, they’ll bother all right. Blair’s rubbing his fat hands and demanding a rush on it. He’s so confident of proving you wrong. Anyway, you’re in deep doo and I’d suggest you think about packing up your sheep. And you’re not to speak to the press. They’re all over the place.”
Jimmy watched as Hamish walked sadly away. He felt in sudden need of a drink. He went to the local pub near headquarters and ordered a double whisky. He turned and surveyed the bar; his eyes lighted on Tam Tamworth, nicknamed “the pig,” because with his large ears and beefy face, short nose and pursed lips, he did look piggy.
Jimmy strolled over to him. “I’m not supposed to speak to the press,” he said in a low voice, “but see if you can use this. Mention my name and I’ll have to kill you.”
“So is it about thon murder?” asked Tam.
“Aye, thanks to our Hamish Macbeth, it may turn out to be two murders. Say you happened to have been passing the garage at the side o’ headquarters last night, this is what you heard.” He rapidly described Hamish’s suspicions, saying that if Macbeth turned out to be right, he should be getting a commendation rather than suspension.
“Man, what a story,” said Tam. “I’m off. I can get it into the morning paper.”
Thanks to an excellent sports section, the Strathbane Journal had a good circulation. Daviot read it next morning with a sinking heart. Blair went out and got drunk, praying between drinks that the DNA would prove Hamish wrong. Headquarters was besieged by press and television demanding a statement. Hamish Macbeth was nowhere to be found. He had packed up his camping equipment, taken his pets, and set off to hide out in the moors.
The previous forensic team had all been sacked because of too many reports of drunkenness. A new laboratory had been built and an expert from Glasgow coaxed up to head the new team. They worked long hours and at last had a full report. The blood in the sidecar belonged to Pete Ray. The fingerprints on the wallet and candlesticks had obviously been put there after the man was dead because it looked as if fingers had been simply pressed down on the items. Pete would have grasped the candlesticks, not put a neat set of fingerprints on them. His neck had not been broken by a fall; someone had broken it by twisting his head back. There were signs that Pete’s body had then been stuffed into the sidecar.
And there was worse. Angus Forrest had said there was no use bothering forensics with the motorcycle and sidecar. It was an open-and-shut case, in his opinion, and his superiors had told him to wrap it up fast.
Jimmy was told to get hold of Hamish Macbeth, return him to his duties, and keep away from the press. Phoning Hamish on his mobile, Jimmy gave him the good news. “But you’re to keep away for another week,” he said, “until Daviot thinks the press have stopped looking for you.”
“Suits me,” said Hamish laconically, turning sausages on a frying pan balanced on a camp stove outside his tent.
“Aye, but there’s something else. You’d better clear out that spare room at the station. You’re to get a constable. His name is Torlich McBain and he’s a wee sneak. I think he’s supposed to keep an eye on you and report to Blair. He’s a bit o’ a Bible basher. He’ll preach you the word.”
Milly Davenport had enjoyed a few days of what she guiltily thought of as freedom. The women from the village were kind. She loved the gossip over cups of tea, and she loved the company.
They worked like a pack of guard dogs to keep the press away from her and give Blair a hard time. Blair had worked out a scenario in his fat brain where Milly had a jealous lover and would have browbeaten her had not the women sent a letter of complaint to Daviot.
But on the morning that Hamish Macbeth returned to his police station, Captain Henry Davenport’s sister, Miss Philomena Davenport, arrived at Milly’s house. “I’m come to stay with you, Milly,” she said. “It’s what my dear brother would have wanted.”
Philomena was a tall woman with big hands and feet. She had cropped grey hair and slightly prominent pale green eyes. She was dressed in gear she considered suitable for the Highlands: knee breeches, lovat wool socks, a green army sweater, and a leather fleece.
She disapproved of Milly “consorting with the local peasantry” and so banned them from the house.
Milly felt she had lost one bully only to find another.
Hamish watched sadly as a scrap dealer from Alness drove off with the contents of his spare room: an old fridge, bits of a plough, rusting screwdrivers, two old televisions, and myriad iron bits and pieces. Although he had previously cleaned it out, when the female constable who had nearly tricked him into marriage was supposed to take the room and was billeted at the manse instead, he had just put everything back in again. Mrs. Wellington, the minister’s wife, arrived with a cleaning squad. A bed, wardrobe, and side table were delivered from a Strathbane shop, the bill to be footed by the police.
Torlich, nicknamed Tolly, arrived to take up residence. He had never risen in the ranks due to failing all the necessary exams. He was small for a policeman, with a wrinkled, sagging grey face and weak watery eyes.
“I’ll let you get settled in,” said Hamish. “I’m off to Drim to have a word with Mrs. Davenport.”
“That should be left to your superiors,” said Tolly.
He had been told Hamish Macbeth was an easy-going layabout. But the hazel eyes that looked down into his own were as hard as stone. “You will do what you are told, Constable,” said Hamish. “In future, you address me as ‘sir.’ You have the day to get your things unpacked.”