Death of a Smuggler

Book 37: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery

by M.C. Beaton

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Traditional Mysteries; International Crime & Mystery

Synopsis

From a New York Times bestselling author, a murder, a missing man, and his newest constable’s secret past are all that’s standing in the way of Sergeant Hamish Macbeth's relaxing winter.

All Hamish Macbeth wants is a quiet life in his peaceful home in the Highland village of Lochdubh. But when his newly-assigned constable arrives, he presents Hamish with a surprise and a secret. Getting to the bottom of the secret becomes the least of Hamish’s problems when he meets a family who have a score to settle with a sinister man who has mysteriously gone missing. Discovering a murdered woman’s body puts further pressure on Hamish, especially when it becomes clear that the murdered woman and the missing man are linked.

To Hamish’s horror, he then finds himself working on the murder case with the despicable Detective Chief Inspector Blair–his sworn enemy–who has been drafted in under curious circumstances. With a growing list of suspects, ever more bewildering circumstances and Blair hindering him at every turn, Hamish must find the murderer before anyone else falls victim.  

Never has a quiet life seemed further from his grasp!

Release date: February 18, 2025

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 256

Sample

Chapter One

If you wake at midnight, and hear a horse’s feet,

Don’t go drawing back the blind, or looking in the street;

Them that ask no questions isn’t told a lie.

Watch the wall, my darling, while the Gentlemen go by!

Rudyard Kipling, “A Smuggler’s Song” (1906)

At first it seemed there was silence. When the small boat’s outboard motor stopped, for a brief moment there was nothing else to be heard. Then, as if creeping into the night air to take the place of the motor’s buzz, the lapping of the water against the prow of the wooden dinghy made itself apparent to the young woman perched on the bench seat. Then came the splash of the ripples against the nearby rocks and the gentle rush of waves breaking on the beach ahead.

Looking back out across the loch, she could see the dark shape of a larger boat, a fishing boat, lying at anchor in deeper water. The fishing boat’s lights were extinguished, but it was still clearly visible in the moonlight, casting a shadow that dulled the ribbons of silver drifting on the loch’s surface. On a second bench, facing forward, sat a dark-haired man huddled in a bulky black jacket against the chill night air. Just behind him, an older, gray-bearded man was hunched at the tiller, guiding the dinghy to shore. Between them was stacked a cargo of cardboard boxes.

Unlike the men, the woman sat tall, her back straight. In the moonlight, her pale features and forlorn expression made her look almost ghost-like, her sadness sharpened by the tear threatening to tumble from the corner of her eye. She gave her head a shake to banish the tear. The men would surely never notice if she were to break down and cry but she was determined that they should never have even the slightest chance of seeing her do so. She gripped a small rucksack she was holding in her lap, clenching her fists around its straps, gazing out into the blackness beyond the fishing boat. Somewhere out there, across almost 3,500 miles of ocean, lay America. New York—that’s where they said she would start a new life. A visa, an apartment, new clothes and a modeling contract were what she had been promised. That was what she had paid for, not a furtive landing on a dismal beach in the middle of night in the middle of nowhere. Where were they anyway? Scotland? What did that mean to her? What did she know of Scotland? Nothing—except that it was not New York!

The bow of the dinghy crunched on the beach, grinding to a halt, and the young woman swayed a little as the boat lurched.

“You, Kira, or whatever your name is,” grunted the man in the black jacket, glowering at the young woman and jerking his thumb toward the water, “ower the side, now!”

Kira could see only the bow of the dinghy had grounded. The rest was still floating free in water that looked at least knee-deep.

“What? In water?” Kira said, frowning at him.

“Aye, it’ll no’ kill you,” the man snapped. “Get a move on!”

Flinging her rucksack over the bow and clear of the water onto the beach, she lowered herself over the side. The water was bitterly cold, and the jeans she was wearing offered no protection, soaking through immediately. She’d been wrong about it being knee-deep. It came up almost to her waist.

“Take this,” the man ordered, standing in the boat to pass her a large cardboard box, the clink of glass betraying its contents as bottles.

Kira reached up to accept the heavy box from the man and then, just as he turned to take another box from the bearded man, she staggered sideways as if by accident, slamming her shoulder into the side of the dinghy, causing it to rock violently.

“Be careful, you clumsy… ohhhhh!” the man let out a groan of dread, then pitched backward into the water, still clutching the box. A little further out than the woman, in slightly deeper water, for a moment he submerged completely then broke the surface again, howling with fury

 and struggling to find his balance, the box gone. Kira cast her box aside, took two steps toward him and grabbed him under the arms, man-handling him toward the shore.

“Never mind me!” he roared, glancing from her sinking box to where his had disappeared. “Save the whisky!”

She abruptly let him go and he sank even faster than the cases of whisky. Once he’d found his feet again, he steadied himself with a hand on the side of the boat. The bearded man looked down at him with concern.

“Are you all right there?” he asked slowly.

“Och, aye!” the man in the water spluttered, his teeth chattering. “I’m fair enjoying a wee midnight dip!”

“Ahh…” said the man in the boat, nodding wisely. “That would be yon sarcasm I’m ay hearing about.”

“We need to get those boxes afore they start falling apart! You can…” He turned toward Kira, but she was nowhere to be seen. “Where the hell has she gone?”

“No sign o’ her on the beach,” reported the bearded man, craning his neck. “Looks like she’s scarpered.”

“Stupid bitch! She’ll no’ get far without…” He patted his breast pocket and cursed. “Damn her! She’s lifted my wallet and the passports from inside my coat!”

“I guess we’ll no’ be seeing her again, then.”

The man in the water rested his head on the side of the dinghy and ran a hand through his hair, the wet gold of the rings on his fingers glinting in the moonlight. Water drained off his head to run down his face. He sighed, then looked out toward the fishing boat.

“We’ll be seeing her again, all right,” he grumbled, stripping off his jacket. “We still have the other girl out there on the boat. She’ll no’ abandon her wee friend. Now, let’s get that whisky ashore afore I freeze to death.”

In a small copse of trees close to the shore, Kira crouched behind a thicket of alder, shivering as she watched the men bringing the cases of whisky ashore, stacking them on the beach. When the dinghy headed back out to the fishing boat, she took the opportunity to kick off her white sports shoes, then stripped off her jeans, underwear and socks. She rubbed her legs vigorously to dry them and to try to warm herself before taking dry clothes from her rucksack. Dressing quickly, she stuffed the wet clothes into the bag, then crammed her feet back into the sodden shoes. She knew they would take some time to dry out and, in the meantime, her feet would be damp, but she had to be ready to move—ready to make a run for it if necessary. Suffering the discomfort of cold, wet feet was better than falling back into the hands of those men.

She could hear them reach the fishing boat, the dinghy’s motor cutting out again, although she wasn’t able to see the bigger boat from her

hiding place. She thought about moving to find a better vantage spot, then dismissed the idea. She wasn’t familiar with the territory and she didn’t want to risk being spotted. She would wait. The boxes were on the beach and she knew the men would soon be back with more. Just a few minutes later, she heard the drone of the outboard motor pushing the dinghy back toward the beach. In the still of the night, it sounded disturbingly loud, the sound clamoring across the water. Surely someone would hear them? On this quiet stretch of coast, however, it seemed there were very few who might hear. She could see what appeared to be a large house some way off on the higher ground beyond the beach and a couple of small cottages even farther away. In the weak moonlight it was difficult to tell how far they were, but there were certainly no lights shining from distant windows. The countryside was dormant.

When the dinghy reappeared, making its way back toward the beach, she could see the dark shapes of the two men and, sitting in the bow just where she had been, a slimmer figure—Elena. The two women had endured a long, arduous journey from Latvia together to reach this shore. She watched in silence, then cursed the men for forcing Elena into the water to help unload even more cases of whisky. When they were finished, the bearded man walked off up the beach and she heard the sound of a car being started. A four-wheel-drive pickup truck then appeared from where a track cut down onto the beach, crossing the sand and pebbles to the stacked whisky cases, which were duly loaded onto the truck. Elena was then bundled into the passenger seat. From her hiding place in the trees, Kira saw her friend look round in panic. Even from a distance the desperation on Elena’s face was obvious. She wanted to call out, to wave, to tell Elena not to be frightened, to tell her that she would come for her and everything would be fine, but all she could do was to watch and wait.

The man in the black jacket climbed back into the dinghy, the bearded man pushed it off the beach and the motor started, taking it out again toward the fishing boat. The bearded man then got behind the wheel of the truck, driving it up onto the track in the direction of the large house where it disappeared from sight, although a light soon appeared in one of the building’s windows. Kira stared at the window. Was Elena being held there? Was that house the reason why they had come ashore on this particular stretch of beach? She had to get to the house to find out.

At that moment, she heard the fishing boat’s engine start up. Tentatively, she crept out of the woods and, on seeing the boat heading toward the mouth of the loch, trailing the dinghy behind it, she broke cover and made for the track. Keeping low and moving swiftly, she stayed close to the drystone wall edging the track, trying to sink into its darkest shadows. While she moved, all she could hear was the sound of her own breathing and an alien squelching noise from her shoes. When she paused to listen, there was nothing to hear but the waves sweeping the beach and the distant rumble of the fishing-boat engine.

It took just a few minutes to reach the open gate leading to the large building

She could now see that it was some sort of pub with a sign above the door that read: LOCH MUIR INN. Treading lightly, she inched toward the building, flattening herself against the wall beside the window showing a light. She risked a glance inside and saw Elena standing at a kitchen worktop side-by-side with the bearded man, who was preparing a meal. Her friend had changed out of her wet clothes, now looking dry and warm.

Kira slunk back to the gate, sinking down into the shadows. Elena had looked like she was about to be fed and the inn seemed warm and comfortable. They had been shipped across Europe together in trucks and vans, then transferred from one boat to another. Elena was as exhausted as she was herself. She would leave her there, at least for tonight. Right now, she had to find somewhere she could shelter. She looked up at the moon, watching a cluster of light clouds drifting across its face. It was starting to feel like it might rain.

Only a few miles farther north in Lochdubh, Hamish Macbeth stood in his small back garden, looking up at the clouds mustering their strength, determined to obscure the moon.

“Looks like we could have a spot o’ rain afore morning, Sonsie,” he said, smiling at his wildcat, which gazed back at him with wide, yellow eyes. Sonsie was relaxing on the roof of his shed, enjoying the nervous clucking of the chickens tucked away safely inside for the night. It always amazed him that Sonsie never went for his birds. She was a wildcat, after all, although everyone in the village preferred to think of her simply as an overgrown tabby. Keeping a wildcat, an endangered species, was strictly against the law, so the local policeman surely wouldn’t have one, would he? Whatever anyone else thought, Hamish was devoted to Sonsie. He reached out to stroke her sleek fur. He was one of only a select few she permitted to touch her. “You wouldn’t want one o’ those daft chickens, would you, lass? You like your food to come from the kitchen, and there’s no point going for a chicken when you’ve a full belly, eh? Come on, then. Time for bed.”

Hamish strolled into his kitchen and the big cat leapt down from the shed, following at his heels, waiting patiently while he closed the back door, then falling in behind him again as he climbed the stairs.

“I thought you were never coming up,” came a voice from the dimly lit bedroom when he opened the door. “Come to bed, Hamish. I’ve to be out early in the morning.”

Claire was a paramedic Hamish had met through work. The two had grown close over the past few months and their romance had become the talk of the village.

“Aye, I was just taking a last wee look out across the loch,” Hamish said, undressing and lifting a reluctant, sleepy Lugs off the bed. The dog opened his eyes just long enough to give Hamish a weary look,

 a soft ear-lick and a heavy sigh. Hamish laid Lugs on the floor where he curled up beside Sonsie.

“We’ll maybe no’ have so many nights like this when we’ve no’ got the place to ourselves,” Claire said, snuggling into his side once Hamish had switched off the bedside light and settled beneath the duvet. “It won’t be the same once your new constable gets here.”

“I don’t see why not,” Hamish replied, chuckling. “He’ll be in the other bedroom, no’ in here wi’ us!”

“Aye, but it might be a wee bit embarrassing,” Claire said, laughing softly. “We’ve no idea who he is or what he’ll be like. It will be a ‘he,’ won’t it?”

“Seems it’s a bloke,” Hamish admitted. “The message I got earlier this evening only said the one who was coming here had been reassigned, no’ who was coming in his place, but it did say ‘he’ would be here in the morning.”

“Then we’d best make the most o’ our last night alone,” Claire said, reaching across to kiss him.

When the sun rose the following morning, the waters of Loch Dubh reflected a sky full of clouds that bore the dark gray and blue bruises of an Atlantic storm. Trundling toward the yellow light in the east, the clouds dragged across the summits of the mountains surrounding the loch, tearing themselves apart on the rocky summits and spilling the last of their rain in the forested slopes.

By the time Claire trotted downstairs just after seven, Hamish was already in the kitchen. Having fed Lugs and Sonsie, he was preparing a breakfast of sausage, bacon and eggs that Claire reluctantly had to refuse as she started her shift at Braikie Hospital at eight. She gave him a kiss, a smile and a promise to make it up to him later. When she hurried outside to her car, she saw a tall, well-built, young police officer in uniform walking in from the street, carrying a couple of large holdalls. At first, she thought only that Hamish’s new constable was reporting bright and early. Then, she frowned a little, wondering why she felt she knew him. Then, when she saw him smile, she knew exactly who he was and immediately wished she could stay for breakfast, if only to see the look on Hamish’s face.

“I’ve got to rush,” she said, treating him to a huge, welcoming smile and reaching up to give him a hug, at which point he dropped his bags, “but you’re in luck—he’s got breakfast on the go.”

The young man grinned, made her promise to meet later for a drink and a catch-up, then straightened his black Police Scotland top, picked up his bags and headed for the kitchen door.

“Sergeant Macbeth,” he said, standing in the doorway to introduce himself. “Constable David Forbes. I believe you’re expecting me.”

In a whirlwind of delight, Lugs suddenly transformed himself from a politely seated, food-begging statue of a dog into a bounding, tail-wagging lick monster, joyously planting his big paws on the newcomer’s chest in a desperate effort to reach high enough to slobber all over his face and ears. Laughing, the young man set his bags down to try to defend himself. Sonsie, curled comfortably in her basket, looked up from her third snooze of the morning, blinked twice to check she recognized the young man then gave a sedate nod of welcome. She was pretty sure she remembered him as a friend, but it simply wouldn’t do for her to go bananas like the idiot dog.

“Davey!” Hamish dropped the wooden spatula he was using to turn the sausages in the pan and wiped his hands on a tea towel. “I was not expecting you, but I am right glad to see you, laddie!”

He crossed the kitchen in a single stride, reached out to shake Davey’s hand then hesitated, laughed and engulfed the young man in a bear hug.

“Steady on, Hamish!” Davey laughed. “You’re making poor Lugs properly jealous!”

“I see you’re still into pumping iron and making muscles,” Hamish said, slapping Davey’s bulging biceps.

“Aye, and I got back into the rugby again down south for a while,” Davey replied. “It wasn’t all hard work and no play.”

“Come away in and sit yourself down, Davey,” Hamish said, returning to his spitting frying pan. “I’ve some breakfast just about ready and there’s coffee made fresh.”

“I saw Claire on my way in,” Davey said, sitting at the kitchen table and ruffling Lugs’s ears. “So you two are…”

“She’s very special to me,” Hamish said with a hint of a warning that Davey should be careful what he said next.

“I’m glad,” Davey said, grinning. “The whole village was talking about what a fine couple you made just before I left.”

“Aye, well, a lot’s happened since you left,” Hamish said, serving up two steaming plates of sausage, bacon and eggs. ...