Part 13 (1/2)

”I want these back,” shouted Hamish.

The man hurled them down on the pavement, shrugged and followed the now slowly moving garbage truck along the street.

”Treasure trove,” said Hamish. ”Let's get these back inside and hae a look.”

Diarmuid was still practising how to raise that eyebrow as they entered the sitting-room, Hamish holding the two bags.

”We'll chust go through these,” said Hamish.

”Mmm.” Diarmuid did not even turn round. There must be some way he could achieve it, but try as he would, both eyebrows kept going up at the same time.

Hamish opened one bag and Harriet the other and they began to sift, through the papers. Then Hamish whistled through his teeth. ”Look at this.”

Harriet took the proffered page.

There was no doubt, it was part of a steamy novel. He took it from her and asked Diarmuid, ”Is this your wife's handwriting?”

Diarmuid turned reluctantly away from the mirror. ”Yes, that's Heather's, all right. What's this all about?”

”Did you really call Jessie to get her to come to Eileen-craig?” asked Hamish. ”Or did she phone you?”

Diarmuid looked uneasy. ”Well, it's hard to remember. I was in shock.”

”It's vena important!”

”Well,” mumbled Diarmuid, ”she did phone me, as a matter of fact, just to find out how I was getting along, and I told her about Heather's death and she said she would come upright away. She asked me to phone and arrange for a boat to collect her at Oban.”

Without asking his permission, Hamish picked up the phone and dialled Jessie's number. There was no reply. ”Come on,” he said to Harriet. ”I've an awful feeling she's gone.”

They took a taxi the short distance to Jessie's. It turned out to be a bas.e.m.e.nt flat. He did not even bother to ring the bell. There was a forlorn, deserted air about the place. A woman was leaning against the railings outside talking to another woman. Hamish approached them.

”Have you seen Miss Jessie Maclean this morning?” he asked.

”Aye,” said one of the women placidly.

”Do you know where she was going?” Hamish demanded, ”Shopping?”

”No' unless it was shopliftin',” said the woman and her friend laughed heartily at her wit. ”She hud two suitcases. Yes, she left aboot an hour ago wi' her man.”-”Whatman?”

”Her fella. An accountant, I think that's what she said.”

Hamish thought hard. Spain! That was where she had said she might go. He turned to the woman again. ”May I use your phone? I am a policeman.”

”He must be in trouble again, Betty,” said the woman's friend.

”In trouble? What this about trouble?” asked Hamish feverishly.

”Her man, her boyfriend. He'd done a stretch in prison, I know that,” said the woman called Betty, ”because Mrs. Queen doon the road's son used tae go tae school wi' him and recognised nun and knew all aboot him.”

”Phone, please,” begged Hamish.

”I'll take him in,” said Betty to her friend. She led Hamish up to the front door above Jessie's bas.e.m.e.nt, opened it with her key and let him into a dark hall. Hamish and Harriet waited in an agony of impatience while she fumbled with the key to the door of her ground-floor flat.

”In the hall on the table,” said Betty.

The hall was actually a dim corridor. Hamish searched through the phone book and then dialled Glasgow Airport. ”Yes,” came the metallic voice from the other end in reply to Hamish's question. ”There's a plane due to take off for Spain. It's a charter flight delayed for mechanical reasons, but expected to leave any minute now.”

Hamish asked to be put through to airport security and introduced himself. ”Find Out if there's a Jessie Maclean on the flight to Spain, that charter flight.”

There was a long wait and then he was told there was no one of that name on the flight. He turned to the woman who was standing in the hall with a small pocket calculator, obviously working out how much to charge him for the call. ”What's the boyfriend's name?” he demanded.

”Macdonald,” she said. ”Willie Macdonald.”

Hamish spoke quickly into the phone and then waited impatiently.

Back came the reply after five agonizing minutes. ”Yes, there is a Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald on board.”

”There's a murder suspect on that plane,” said Hamish. ”Get Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald off it and keep them at the airport.” Harriet, listening, heard the voice at the other end quack indignantly.

”Yes, yes,” said Hamish. ”I'll get the proper authority. Don't let mem get away!”

He put down the phone and said to Harriet. ”Let's go.”

”Whit about paying for the call?” demanded Betty. He handed her a pound note and, dragging Harriet after him, ran out and down the street, looking for a cab. It was Hogmanay, New Year's Eve, he thought. There would be very few, if any, free cabs about. And then he saw a taxi with its light on rounding a corner and raced for it, with Harriet tumbling after him. He told the cabby to take them to police headquarters.

”How are you going to manage it, Hamish?” asked Harriet anxiously. ”You've no proof. I mean, you've proof that she pinched Heather's book but no proof she murdered her.”

”I'll get proof,” said Hamish, leaning forward and willing the cab to go faster.

At Glasgow police headquarters there were more delays while a detective sergeant phoned Strathbane to establish Hamish's credentials. But Hamish was lucky, Blair was still on holiday, and it was Jimmy Anderson, slightly drunk, who said that Hamish Macbeth was Scotland's answer to Kojak, and if he said there was a murderer at Glasgow Airport, then there surely was.

Soon Harriet found herself crammed into a police car along with Hamish, two detectives, and a policewoman while a carload of four policemen followed behind. They had only gone a little way when Hamish shouted, ”Stop!”

The detectives stolidly watched Hamish Macbeth hurtle into a hairdressing salon called 'Binty's Beauty Parlour'.

”Whit's he daein'?” asked one laconically. ”How should I know?” retorted the other. ”Them Highlanders are all daft. Ye cannae figure oot the way their minds work. Maybe it's the mountains. Something tae do wi' the alt.i.tude. It affects their brains. Maybe he wants tae look nice for the arrest and is getting his hair cut.”

Hamish emerged carrying a paper bag and climbed back info the police car. The detective, driving, said with heavy sarcasm, ”Any mair shopping you would like to do?”

”No,” said Hamish. ”Chust make it quick.”

The detective put on the siren and off they went again. Harriet clutched Hamish's hand hard as houses streamed past under the winking lights of the Christmas decorations. At one point, they had to swerve wildly to avoid a drunk weaving across the road. Glasgow had obviously started the New Year's celebrations early.

Hamish gave the detectives an outline of his investigations and Harriet could practically feel disbelief emanating from the square shoulders of the detectives in the front seat, detectives who were used to drunken murders, savage gang fights on the housing estates, but not to sophisticated rigmaroles about books.

Fortunately, it was only a short trip to Glasgow Airport. Harriet blinked in the lights as the detectives, who obviously knew where they were going, led them along a corridor away from the staring pa.s.sengers and into a room marked 'Security'.

And there was Jessie Maclean with a tall, weedy man sitting beside her. On a long table in front of them were their suitcases.