Death of a Valentine (19 page)

Jimmy had just arrived back when Josie triumphantly showed him the evidence. The culprit was Derry Harris, a local Cnothan layabout. Jimmy passed the news to Police Inspector Ettrick, who got
two police officers to go back to Cnothan with Josie and make the arrest. The money was recovered, and Josie basked in the inspector’s praise.

She arrived at the police station in Lochdubh that evening with a packet of fish for Sonsie and a packet of lamb’s liver for Lugs.

Hamish listened while she described the solving of the burglary. ‘Good girl!’ he said. ‘Well done!’ Josie glowed.

‘I suppose you’ll be going to the wedding on Saturday.’

‘What wedding?’ asked Josie.

‘Muriel McJamieson is marrying John Bean. They are both villagers so everyone’s invited. I’m surprised Mrs Wellington hasn’t told you.’

The truth was that Josie had seen as little of Mrs Wellington as possible, telling that lady every evening that she was off to a meeting. Her brain raced. There would be drinking at the wedding.
She would need to make sure Hamish had a few drinks and then lure him back to the station and drug him.

She realized for the first time that if she appeared cold and detached, Hamish would drop his guard.

So she said casually, ‘I’ll think about it. I’ll be on my way, sir.’

She’s turning out all right after all, thought Hamish.

Josie drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked if Elspeth was still there.

‘She’s hiding in her room,’ said Mr Johnson. ‘She’s leaving in the morning.’

‘May I have a word with her?’ asked Josie.

The manager looked at her doubtfully. ‘Is it police business?’

‘No, just a wee chat.’

‘I’ll phone her.’

He rang Elspeth’s room and said, ‘Policewoman McSween is downstairs and wants a word with you. No, it’s not police business.’

He put down the phone and said, ‘You can go up. Room twenty-one.’

Elspeth answered the door and looked curiously at Josie. ‘What is it?’ she asked. ‘Is Hamish all right?’

‘I just wanted to ask your advice.’

‘Come in.’

Josie sat down on the bed and looked up earnestly with her big brown eyes at Elspeth.

‘You are a woman of the world,’ began Josie.

A line from a Gilbert and Sullivan operetta flashed into Elspeth’s brain: ‘Uttering platitudes / In stained glass attitudes.’

‘What’s that got to do with anything?’ she asked.

‘I’m old-fashioned,’ said Josie piously. ‘Not like you. If a man sleeps with me, do you think he ought to marry me?’

‘Are we talking about Hamish?’ asked Elspeth.

‘I didn’t say that.’

‘Well, these days, women must take responsibility as well as men. Unless you’ve been raped, you haven’t a hope in hell if it was only a one-night stand.’ Elspeth’s
face hardened. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have packing to do. I suggest you consult a professional.’

She went and held open the door.

Josie left, burning up with fury. What did she know about anything? But Josie hoped that Elspeth would think that she had meant Hamish.

Hamish lay in bed that night, reading a detective story. He sighed as he finally put the book down. Fictional detectives never seemed to be hit with long days and weeks of not
having a clue. ‘I’d give anything for even a red herring,’ he said to his pets before he switched out the light. His last gloomy thought before he went to sleep was that Blair
would hound and hound until he found any suspect.

Josie craved a drink. She had been frightened to hide any more in her room in case Mrs Wellington found the bottles. Without a drink, she felt she could not go through with the
plan of trapping Hamish.

She had a bottle of vodka hidden under the roots of a rowan tree in the garden. Josie waited and waited until she was sure her hosts would be safely asleep. She crept along the corridors. So
many rooms and the Wellingtons childless! The manse had been built in the days of enormous families. Down the stairs, treading carefully over the second one from the bottom that creaked, out into
the blustery cold, taking out a pencil torch and heading rapidly for the rowan went Josie. She scrabbled in the roots of the tree until her fingers closed over the vodka bottle.

Holding it to her chest, she scurried back to the manse. As she got to the foot of the stairs, she noticed that the light was on in the landing. Glad she was still in uniform, she stuffed the
bottle into an inside pocket of her coat. Mrs Wellington was coming out of the bathroom. ‘I forgot to take my sleeping pill,’ she said. ‘Goodness, you’re late.’

‘I went for coffee with some people after the meeting,’ said Josie.

‘Oh, good girl! Night, night.’

‘Good night,’ said Josie, scuttling down the corridor to her room.

She was just about to unscrew the top of the bottle when she heard footsteps approaching along the corridor outside. Josie thrust the bottle under the mattress, whipped off her coat, and began
to pull her regulation sweater over her head as the door opened.

‘Oh, sorry,’ said Mrs Wellington. ‘I just came to ask you if you’d like a hot-water bag.’

‘No thanks,’ said Josie. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Right. See you in the morning.’

Josie waited again until she heard the door of Mrs Wellington’s room shut. Her hands were shaking. She seized the bottle from under the mattress and twisted off the top. She drank a great
mouthful, feeling the spirit burn down to her stomach and a glow beginning to spread through her body.

Josie sat down by the fire that Mrs Wellington had lit earlier and began to drink steadily.

Josie awoke the next day and felt she had not thought the drugging of Hamish through properly. If she used laudanum or Mandrax then he might remember clearly what happened
before he went to sleep. Rohypnol, that date-rape drug, was the answer. But how could she get hold of some? There had been a case of a girl claiming she had been drugged and raped. What had been
her name? Grace something or other. Think!

She phoned Hamish and said she had some shopping to do in Strathbane. ‘Go ahead,’ said Hamish. ‘There’s nothing more we can do at the moment. But keep away from police
headquarters!’

Josie drove to the library at Strathbane and by trawling through the back numbers of the
Strathbane Journal
on the library computer, she found the name she was looking for – Grace
Chalmers.

Now the problem was how to get the Chalmers evidence box without signing for it. Somehow, she would have to try to con her way into where the evidence was kept.

She knew old Joe Macdonald, in charge of the evidence room, had a soft spot for her.

But when she made her way downstairs, she saw to her dismay that the man on the other side of the counter was Charlie, the greeter from the AA meeting.

‘Why, Josie,’ he said. ‘I didnae know we were both in the same business. How are you getting on?’

‘Where’s Joe?’

‘Oh, he’s retired.’

Josie thought quickly. ‘Can I come through and talk to you?’

‘I shouldnae, really, but och, I’m supposed to help a fellow sufferer. Come on through.’

He buzzed her in. ‘Having trouble wi’ John Barleycorn?’ he asked.

‘Just a bit.’

‘Which meetings do you . . . Damn, there’s someone coming. Hide yourself.’

Josie darted behind the shelves of evidence boxes and began to search desperately. At last she found the box she was looking for and opened it up. There was a bottle of Rohypnol in its evidence
bag, all neatly labelled. She stuffed it quickly in her pocket. She heard Charlie calling her and went back to the desk.

‘Josie,’ he said urgently, ‘get back outside. You have my number. Give me a ring.’

‘Will do,’ said Josie.

Once she was back outside, he asked, ‘Now what was it you wanted?’

‘I wanted to look at evidence from the Percy Stane murder.’

‘Then you’ll need to go over to forensics. It’s all still there.’

Josie thanked him and made her escape.

Her head was full of plans as she drove back to Lochdubh. No more booze. She was not an alcoholic. She would need a clear head. She must get into the police station just before the wedding
reception and drug those wretched animals. Some laudanum in their drinking bowls should do the trick. Then she’d better put the Rohypnol in Hamish’s drink at the wedding reception.
Maybe make sure it was a soft drink. It could be lethal in alcohol.

Saturday dawned bright and sunny. The wedding service was to be held at eleven o’clock in the morning. Then there was a wedding breakfast for close friends and family and
at seven in the evening, in the village hall, there was to be a grand party for everyone in the village and round about who cared to come.

The wedding service went well but Hamish wasn’t there. Outside the church, Josie phoned Hamish’s mobile. He said he was over in Braikie but would be back for the dance and told her
to enjoy herself.

Carrying a packet of fish and a packet of venison, Josie let herself into the police station at six o’clock. She fed the dog and the cat and then poured laudanum into their drinking bowls
and made her way back to the manse to change for the party.

She decided to wear a conservative black dress with a choker of pearls. She meant to look as respectable as possible.

It was just when she was about to leave her room that the whole plan appeared to her to be dangerous and stupid. What had come over her? Her hands began to shake. She rolled back the rug and
prised up a loose floorboard where she had hidden a bottle of Scotch. She gulped some down and then some more.

No, she thought stubbornly, Hamish and I are meant to be together. Like a soldier going off to battle, she hid the bottle, stood up, squared her shoulders, and marched to the door.

When she arrived at the village hall, the bride, resplendent in her wedding dress, was taking the floor with her new husband. Josie’s eyes filled with sentimental tears.
That will soon be me, she thought.

She helped herself to a soft drink, aware of Mrs Wellington’s eyes on her. Josie accepted several offers to dance but always watching the door for the arrival of Hamish.

At last she saw his fiery head. He was impeccably dressed in his one good suit. Josie went to join him. ‘How is it going?’ she asked.

‘Still nothing,’ said Hamish. ‘Let’s find a quiet corner. I want to talk about it.’

They both walked to a corner of the hall, away from the band. ‘It’s thon damn video,’ complained Hamish. ‘I’ve watched it and watched it until my eyes hurt. There
must be something there. I’ve even borrowed a machine from the hotel so I can go over it at the police station.’

‘Perhaps I could have a look at it this evening,’ said Josie. ‘Maybe a fresh pair of eyes is what you need.’

‘You won’t want to miss the fun.’

‘I don’t mind.’

‘All right. We’ll have something to eat. I’ve got to talk to a few people and thank Muriel’s parents for the party. I’ll let you know when I’m ready to
go.’

This was all meant to happen, thought Josie.

She sat in a corner of the hall, refusing offers to dance, frightened that Hamish might think she was enjoying herself so much that he would leave her behind.

But he finally came up to her and said, ‘Are you sure you can be bothered looking at that video tonight?’

‘Yes, I’m dying to see it,’ said Josie eagerly.

Curious eyes watched them leave the hall together.

At the police station, Hamish exclaimed, ‘Would you look at those lazy beasts!’ Sonsie and Lugs lay curled up together asleep beside the stove. ‘Now come into
the living room, and I’ll run that video.’

‘Can I get you something to drink?’ asked Josie.

‘Not at the moment.’

She followed him into the living room. She shivered. Hamish had central heating but hardly ever used it.

Hamish switched on the television and slotted the video in. Josie decided to pay close attention. If she did find something, he would be so thrilled with her that it would throw him
off-guard.

What if there might be someone amongst the crowd that Hamish had not noticed? So instead of studying the main characters, she kept her eyes on the audience. The Lammas queen was crowned and
proceeded on a float through the town, then back to the field.

Suddenly she leaned forward. ‘Stop the film! Right, run it back a bit. Stop! There! At the edge of the screen.’

The provost and councillors had left the rostrum, where the queen now sat with her attendants. It was a back view. Percy had moved behind the rostrum to film the crowds.

The provost and councillors stood in groups near the rostrum, chatting. At the very edge of the screen stood Jamie Baxter. He was looking straight at Annie, and his face was a mask of hatred.
Hamish ran the film slowly forward. His wife was with him. She said something to him and tugged at his arm, and then they both walked away.

‘Well, I neffer,’ breathed Hamish, the sibilance of his accent showing his excitement. ‘I wonder if there’s anything in our Jamie’s background to show he knew about
bombs. I’ll check tomorrow. Oh, good girl! This calls for a drink.’

‘I’ll get it,’ said Josie. ‘Whisky?’

‘Aye, but put a lot of water in it. I want to have a clear head in the morning. The bottle’s in the cupboard. I’ll chust hae a look at this again.’

Josie hesitated in the kitchen. He was pleased with her. Let it go. But what if Elspeth came back from Glasgow? According to Mrs Wellington, they’d been an item.

She took down the bottle of whisky and poured a weak measure for Hamish and a strong one for herself. She added two crushed tablets of Rohypnol to Hamish’s drink and stirred them up.

‘Switch off the light,’ ordered Hamish. ‘I want a better look at this.’

Everything’s going my way, thought Josie. If there’re any grounds in the glass, he won’t notice in the dark. She handed Hamish his drink.
‘Slainte,’
she
said.

Hamish took a drink. ‘You’re right,’ he said, his eyes glued to the screen. ‘How could I ha’ missed that?’