Death of a Valentine (20 page)

He continued drinking while he stared at the screen. Then he suddenly put his hand up to his head. ‘I feel dizzy.’

‘Maybe there was something in the food at the party,’ said Josie. Hamish stood up and swayed.

‘Let me get you to bed.’ She supported his lanky figure as he stumbled towards the bedroom.

Hamish fell on the bed. When he had come back to the police station, he had taken off his jacket and tie. Josie struggled until she had removed his shirt. His eyes were closed, and he seemed to
be out cold. She threw the shirt on the floor and then pulled his trousers off. By the time she got his underpants and socks and shoes off, she was sweating. There was the final effort of managing
to get him under the bedclothes. She stripped off her own clothes and crept naked into the bed beside him. She rubbed her naked body against his, working herself up. There must be a smell of sex
when he woke up in the morning.

This is what it’s going to be like for real, thought Josie, laying her head on his chest.

Hamish slowly regained consciousness the following morning. He felt a body next to his. He blearily looked down into Josie’s sleeping face. He rolled out of bed and fell
on the floor with a thump. He stared down at his naked body. A trail of discarded clothes lay on the floor from the entrance to the bedroom to the bed.

He clutched his forehead and groaned aloud. Josie became awake. ‘Good morning, darling,’ she said huskily.

Hamish seized the duvet from the bed and covered his naked body. That left Josie exposed. He stumbled to his feet, grabbed his dressing gown, and wrapped it around himself. He went into the
kitchen where his bleary animals were just waking up. He lit the stove with trembling hands and put water on to boil for coffee.

Josie came up behind him and put her arms around him. ‘Get off!’ snarled Hamish.

‘But, Hamish, darling,’ wailed Josie. ‘After last night, you can’t treat me like this.’

‘I cannae remember a thing,’ muttered Hamish. ‘Look, if this gets out, we’ll lose our jobs. Keep your mouth shut and forget it effer happened.’

‘But I can’t. I love you.’

‘Josie, just go. If it was a one-night stand, I’m sorry. It won’t happen again. Take yourself off to your mother’s and leave me in peace for a bit. Maybe some bastard
gave me a mickey at that party. I’ll go to Brodie and get a blood test taken and then go over to forensics and get them to analyze it.’

Tears running down her face, Josie dressed, put on her coat, and staggered from the police station. This was a nightmare. It would all lead back to her, she was sure of it. Hamish would soon
realize she was the one who was interested in drugging him.

To her relief, Mrs Wellington was out when she got back to the manse. Josie packed her suitcase, went downstairs, and left a note on the kitchen table for Mrs Wellington before going out to her
car and driving off, squinting through her tears.

Hamish hurried to Dr Brodie’s surgery and got the doctor to take a blood test and a urine sample. ‘Give them to me,’ ordered Hamish, ‘and I’ll
take them over to forensics.’

‘Hamish, no one else at the wedding has been in here to complain of any ill effects.’

Hamish drove quickly to the forensics lab. Lesley regarded him impatiently when she heard his request. ‘We’re backed up, Hamish. You should have left the doctor to send them to the
hospital lab.’

‘Chust dae this,’ snapped Hamish. ‘Someone tried to drug me. I’m sure of it.’

‘Oh, leave it,’ said Lesley. ‘We’ll do our best.’

When Hamish had left, her husband, Bruce, asked, ‘What was that about?’

‘Hamish has left us his blood sample and urine sample. He wants a rush on it. He thinks he’s been drugged.’

‘We’ve got too much to do,’ said Bruce, who was jealous of Hamish because he knew his wife had at one time been keen on the policeman. ‘Shove them in the
fridge.’

‘But what do I tell him when he starts nagging on the phone?’

‘Oh, for heaven’s sakes, tell him he’s clear. We can’t be wasting time on one damn highland policeman.’

Hamish stood outside the lab and phoned Jimmy. ‘Where are you?’ he asked.

‘I’m in the pub.’

‘It isn’t even noon yet!’

‘What are you? The Temperance Society?’

‘I’m coming to see you. I’ve got a breakthrough.’

‘It’s the pub next to headquarters.’

‘What if Blair finds me there?’

‘He won’t. He’s down at the docks.’

Jimmy was sitting at a corner table in the pub. ‘What’s all the excitement about?’

Hamish told him about the tape and about the look on Jamie Baxter’s face.

‘Och, come on, laddie!’ said Jimmy when he had finished. ‘He’s a respectable man wi’ an impeccable background.’

‘What is his background?’ asked Hamish. ‘You told me you had checked all my suspects.’

‘He was in special forces in Northern Ireland.’

‘Was he now? Jimmy, what better place to find out all about bomb making? Didn’t you connect the dots? You should ha’ told me about this. I want a warrant.’

‘You’ll need a lot more evidence to get a warrant than a look on a man’s face months ago.’

‘I’m going over to have a word wi’ him.’

‘Well, mind how you go and if the shit hits the fan and he starts howling to Daviot, I’ll swear blind it’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

At the town hall, Hamish asked Jessie Cormack where her boss was. ‘He’s gone to Edinburgh with his wife,’ said Jessie. ‘There’s some function or
other they have to attend.’ Hamish went back outside and climbed into his Land Rover. He had to get inside Jamie’s house.

Dressed in black, he left his police station that night at two in the morning. He had borrowed an old Volvo from Iain at the garage, not wanting the Land Rover to be seen
anywhere near the Baxters’ house.

It was a dark, cold, misty night. He parked the Volvo some distance away and made his way along a lane at the back of the Baxters’ house. The garden gate was locked but he climbed nimbly
over it and dropped down into the garden. He had not noticed any sign of a burglar alarm on his previous visits to Cora. He opened a small backpack, took out his forensic coveralls, and put them
on, even covering his boots. He did not want any trace of him to be found in the house.

He took out a ring of skeleton keys and got to work on the back door, hoping it was not bolted on the other side. Householders often did not realize how effective a bolt could be.

At last the lock clicked open and he slid quietly into the kitchen. His pencil torch flickered over the sterile kitchen’s gleaming surfaces. He made his way from the kitchen into a square
hall. He looked briefly into the downstairs living room and dining room before making his way quietly up the stairs. He hoped Jamie had a study.

He found it beside the main bedroom. Thanking his stars the study was at the back of the house, he sat down at Jamie’s desk and began to go through the drawers. The bottom one was locked.
He worked steadily with a skeleton key, not wanting to force the drawer. His heart sank when all he found were pornographic magazines and a bottle of whisky.

He flicked the torchlight around the room. There was a small wall safe. If there is anything incriminating, it will be in there, thought Hamish. But how to get the combination?

He searched the desk again, hoping that Jamie might have written the combination somewhere. He took out all the drawers and looked at the back. Nothing. He replaced the drawers and switched on
Jamie’s computer. There was a file for addresses and telephone numbers. He opened it up. He recognized Annie’s home number and work number. He studied all the names and was about to
give up when he saw a name in the middle – McPeter.
Peter
was slang for ‘safe’. Beside it were six numbers with the area code for Braikie. He knew a lot of people tried to
keep numbers secure by making them look like a phone number. He scribbled the number in a small notebook and then went over to the safe.

He moved the dial, squinting down at the numbers he had written. He let out a low whistle of satisfaction when the door swung open. Inside were various letters from building contractors. It
seemed as if Jamie had been giving contracts to friends for a payoff. There was a manila envelope. He pulled it out and took it over to the desk. Inside was a smaller envelope containing
photographs. He slid them out. They were of Annie, either naked or wearing fishnet stockings and a suspender belt. He put them to one side and studied the rest of the contents. There was a book on
bomb making.

He went back to the safe and pulled out a metal box. He took it to the desk and opened it. Inside was a cutthroat razor and bottles of chemicals. The fool, thought Hamish. The vain murderous
fool! He was
proud
of what he had done. He probably sat in his office, gloating over his trophies.

Hamish spread all his finds on the desk, risked switching on the lights, and, taking out a small, powerful digital camera, began to photograph the evidence. Then he carefully put everything back
the way it had been and locked the safe.

Mr Patel was roused at seven in the morning by Hamish hammering on the door of his flat above the shop. ‘What is it, Hamish?’ he asked.

‘I need to use that machine in the shop for printing photos.’

‘At this time o’ the day?’

‘It iss top secret.’

‘Oh, come round to the front and I’ll let you in.’

In the shop, Hamish slid the memory card into the machine and then waited while the photos were printed off. He had told Mr Patel not to look.

‘I hope that all did ye some good,’ said Mr Patel when he had finished. ‘I just hope it isnae your holiday photos.’

‘I’ve forgotten what a holiday’s like,’ said Hamish. ‘I’ll take a packet o’ these manila envelopes.’

Hamish went back to the police station and, still wearing latex gloves, wrote SUPERINTENDENT DAVIOT in block capitals on an envelope, addressed it, and then put all the
photographic evidence inside. He typed out a note: ‘Evidence from Jamie Baxter’s safe.’ He steamed off an old stamp and put it on the envelope.

He couldn’t bear to post it and have to wait until it was delivered, fearing that Jamie would destroy everything before a search warrant could be issued. He went through to his bedroom,
wrinkling his nose in distaste at the faint smell of sex from his bed, and rummaged under the bed where he kept a box with some disguises. He selected a black wig, glasses, a black moustache and a
cap. He changed out of his regulation boots and put on an old pair of trainers.

Lugs and Sonsie looked at him hopefully but he said, ‘Be good. I won’t be long.’ The animals eyed him curiously as he put on his disguise.

He opened the kitchen door and peered out. Nobody was around. He got into the Volvo and drove off to Strathbane. He parked some way away from police headquarters and then walked towards the
building.

To his delight, he saw a postman just getting out of his van. As the postman walked towards the building, carrying a pile of mail fastened with a rubber band, Hamish called to him.
‘You’ve dropped one.’

He handed the postman the envelope. ‘I don’t know how that could have happened,’ said the postman. ‘But thanks.’

Hamish went back to Lochdubh, stopping on the way to strip off his disguise and the clothes. He left the car at the garage in the village. Back at the police station, he got an old oil drum out
of the shed and put the disguise in it. He went in, changed into his uniform, got his forensic suit and boots, and threw them in as well. He added the clothes he had been wearing when he had broken
into the Baxters’ home. On a sudden impulse he ran indoors and stripped his bed and stuffed the sheets and pillowslips on top. Then he remembered the memory card from his camera. He added
that as well. He poured petrol over the lot and set it on fire.

He was suddenly exhausted, and that exhaustion brought back unhappy memories of waking up next to Josie. When everything in the oil drum had burnt down to black ash, he went indoors. He put his
head down on the kitchen table and fell asleep.

He was awakened three hours later by the shrilling of the phone. He struggled to his feet and went to answer it. It was Jimmy. ‘Hamish, we’ve got evidence on Jamie
Baxter. We’re heading over there with a warrant. Want to be in at the kill?’

‘I’ll be there as quick as I can.’

‘You weren’t breaking and entering last night by any chance?’

‘Would I ever? See you soon.’

Cora was driving as the black BMW moved into the Baxters’ street. ‘Wake up, Jamie,’ she said, nudging her husband in the passenger seat. ‘What are all
these policemen doing outside our house? Oh, stop them! They’re about to break the door down!’

But Daviot had seen their car arriving and told the men with the battering ram to wait.

Jamie got slowly out of the car followed by his wife. ‘What is going on here?’ he demanded.

Daviot handed him a search warrant. ‘Open up,’ he said. ‘You wait here, Mrs Baxter. A policewoman will look after you.’

Hamish drove up just as Jamie was being ushered into his home. Cora looked at him, her eyes blazing with hatred. ‘You!’ she spat out.

He walked into the house and straight up the stairs to the office. Daviot was standing in front of the safe, flanked by Blair. ‘Open it!’ he ordered Jamie.

Jamie gave a grin like a rictus and patted his pockets. ‘I lost the combination. I meant to get on to the company, and –’

‘Stop havering, man,’ yelled Blair. ‘Open the damn thing or we can all wait here till I get someone to blast it open.’

Jamie’s shoulders sagged. He twisted the dial, and the safe swung open. He stood, head hanging, as Daviot went through the contents. He held up the cut-throat razor.

‘If I might have a look,’ said Hamish.

‘Get back to your sheep and leave this tae the experts,’ said Blair.

‘What is it, Macbeth?’ asked Daviot as Hamish drew on a pair of latex gloves and took out a powerful magnifying glass. He studied the razor. ‘There’s a bit o’ blood
just between the handle and the blade,’ said Hamish. ‘If you get that examined, you’ll probably find it’s Percy Stane’s.’

Daviot charged Jamie with three murders. He was led outside. He saw his wife and screamed, ‘You bitch! You told them!’