Death of a Spy

Book 36: A Hamish Macbeth Mystery

by M.C. Beaton, R.W. Green

Genres: Cozy Mystery; Police Procedurals; Traditional Mysteries

Synopsis

Sergeant Hamish Macbeth faces a string of mysterious robberies that are only the beginning of an international threat to his sleepy Scottish village of Lochudch in the latest mystery in M.C. Beaton’s beloved, New York Times bestselling series.

Sergeant Hamish Macbeth has some major problems to deal with – crimes and criminals, even law enforcement agents, that he doesn’t want anywhere near his beloved Highland village in Lochdubh. Hamish is worried about how the locals, as well as those in the wider area of his territory in Sutherland, will react to his new assistant officer. The officer is none other than the enigmatic American James Bland who is on an exchange scheme from his home city of Chicago in the United States, supposedly to study policing methods in Scotland.

Hamish knows that this is far from the truth. Having recently become involved in identifying a Russian spy ring to solve a murder, he is aware that Bland’s mission is to track down the members of the spy network still at large. Bland trusts Hamish to help him find all of those who may have been, or may still be, in league with the Russians.

In the meantime, he and Bland have to contend with the everyday chores of rural policing. The tourist season brings with it the usual crop of traffic incidents, lost wallets, lost dogs, and people who are simply lost, but a spate of burglaries and robberies committed by a man described as having a gold tooth and a spider’s web tattoo on his neck give Hamish cause for serious concern. The robberies become increasingly violent and the man is dubbed "Spiderman" by the local press. Hamish has to use all of his contacts and every ounce of his Highland guile to find the robber.

Release date: February 13, 2024

Publisher: Grand Central Publishing

Print pages: 256

Sample

Every man at the bottom of his heart believes that he is a born detective.

John Buchan, The Power-House

He watched the headlights sweep through swathes of darkness as he guided the car along the coast road. On this stretch there were no houses for miles around, no streetlights, and tonight the moon wouldn’t put in an appearance until well after midnight. To his right the hillside climbed steeply up toward the craggy peaks and chill waters of the many tarns nestled in the crumpled mountain skirts of the 3,000-foot Beinn Bhàn. To his left, the inky waters of the Inner Sound stretched five miles to the island of Raasay, where the hills shielded him from the even more distant lights of Portree on the Isle of Skye.

Tonight, the black night was his friend and the intrusion of his headlights made him feel almost guilty. Disturbing the still silence of the dark was not his intention, but it was a necessary transgression. He knew a spot where he could pull off the road just before Applecross Sands and enjoy an uninterrupted view of the clear, cloudless night sky. Glancing down at the binoculars and small telescope in the passenger footwell, he smiled, wondering how many stars he would be able to identify among the thousands he would see. With no competition from human-made, terrestrial light sources, the sky would be a blaze of stars.

His eyes flicked back to the route ahead and he gasped in alarm. There was a body lying in the road! He slammed on the brakes and the tires bit into the surface for a moment before the frantic drumming of the anti-lock brakes brought the car to a halt. He peered out through the windscreen and could clearly see a man lying a few feet in front, illuminated in his headlight beams. Beyond the fallen man stood another car, a silver Audi, facing him on the narrow, single-track road, its headlights extinguished and the driver’s door open wide.

Flinging open his own door, he rushed over to the prostrate figure, oblivious to a momentary flash of bright light from the darkness up on the hill. He crouched beside the body.

“Are you hurt?” he called, looking for injuries. “Can you hear me?”

Then the body moved, the head turning to stare up at him with vaguely familiar, half-remembered eyes.

“What…?” he breathed, then heard a footstep behind him. He turned in time to see a baseball bat chopping through the air toward his head. He tried to dodge but the blow caught him on the neck and he collapsed on the ground. The powerful figure wielding the bat took another swing and knocked him senseless.

The man who had been on the ground was quickly on his feet, rolling the barely conscious driver onto a tarpaulin sheet and dragging him out of the way while the batsman swiftly jumped into his victim’s car, maneuvering it to the edge of the road. There, the headlights picked out a short stretch of boulder-strewn scrub that fell away toward the edge of a cliff. Leaving the engine running, he leapt out, sprinting over to the Audi and starting it up. With his partner directing him, he positioned the Audi with its rear bumper touching that of the other car. They then bundled the injured driver, tracks of blood now smearing his face and neck, back behind the wheel of his car and slammed the door. A moment later, they had the Audi’s engine revving before it shot backward, launching the injured man’s car toward the cliff.

The Audi shuddered to a halt at the roadside while its occupants watched the other car lurch and buck, crashing over boulders hidden in the heather, its headlight beams soaring skyward before plunging back to earth. The car slowed, seemingly desperate to cling to the safety of the slope, and stopped when its front wheels dropped over the precipice, grounding its underside. It perched there for a moment before the weight of its engine and the crumbling of the cliff edge sent it somersaulting out of sight.

The two killers remained sitting in the Audi when another man appeared from the hillside, jogging past them, lighting his way with a flashlight pointed at the ground. He approached the cliff edge and peered over. On the rocks below, the car lay upside down like a dying turtle, its doors closed, only its wheels above water. The submerged headlights spread an eerie yellow glow around the front of the vehicle for a few moments before they finally faded and died. Satisfied that their job was done, he folded the tarpaulin, taking care that no blood spilled onto the road, and slipped it inside a large, black bin liner. He then stowed it in the boot of the Audi before climbing into the back seat. Not a word was spoken as they sped off into the night.

“This will be some kind o’ joke, is it no’?” Sergeant Hamish Macbeth stared Superintendent Daviot straight in the eye. “Have you gone completely doolally?”

“Sergeant Macbeth!” Daviot barked. “You will not use that tone with me! As your senior officer, you will address me with the respect my rank demands!”

“Aye, right,” Hamish said, his stare never wavering. “So have you gone completely doolally, sir?”

Daviot pursed his lips in anger but had no time to respond before Macbeth charged ahead.

“You can’t seriously expect me to police my beat wi’ somebody looking like that!” he growled, pointing at the third man in the superintendent’s office. The man was wearing a pale blue shirt with a silver star badge above the left breast pocket and sergeant’s chevrons on the sleeves. Above the chevrons were neat octagonal shoulder patches with the words “Chicago Police” embracing a representation of the city’s seal. “The folk around Lochdubh will never take me seriously ever again.”

“Macbeth, I expect you to follow orders!” Daviot fumed. “I expect you to…”

“Maybe I could jump in at this point, sir,” said Chicago Police Sergeant James Bland with a calm, pacifying smile. “Hamish, you know I’ve been to Lochdubh, so I know a little about your people there and I don’t want to make any waves.”

Hamish looked at Bland. The man had always been a mystery—part golfing gambler, part stock-market investor, part globetrotting playboy, and now part cop. What else was he into? Why was he now standing beside him in front of Daviot’s desk? Why was he back in Scotland?

“How about this?” Bland detached the metal star from his shirt. “I’m happy to wear something less conspicuous—maybe one of your Police Scotland black shirts—I’ll just pin my star to it to help explain who I am and why I’m here.”

“And just why are you here?” Hamish narrowed his eyes, delivering the question like a challenge.

“Officially, Sergeant Bland is here as part of an exchange scheme, learning about the policing methods employed in Scotland,” Daviot explained, holding out a document with a Police Scotland letterhead. “Our orders are that he is to be afforded every hospitality and that he is to accompany you as you go about your normal day-to-day duties.”

“And unofficially?” Hamish asked, having scanned the document.

“Actually, Hamish,” Bland said, still smiling, his American drawl far more relaxed than Daviot’s nervous, tense delivery, “the unofficial part’s pretty official, too.”

He offered Hamish a document with a UK Government Home Office heading. Hamish read the text, skipping the preamble to focus on what he immediately recognized as the heart of the matter.

“It says here that you’re working ‘covertly’ and I’m to give you ‘every possible assistance in pursuit of the investigation.’” Hamish glowered at Bland. “What investigation?”

“You recognize this?” Bland took back the Home Office document, exchanging it for another piece of paper. It was a printout of a computer spreadsheet showing columns of numbers and, at the bottom of the first column, three names—Vadoit, Serdonna and Ralbi.

“Aye, I mind o’ this,” Hamish said with a resigned sigh. He now knew exactly why Bland was back in Scotland. “Four people died on account o’ this,” he added, shaking the spreadsheet. “It damn near got me killed as well!”

“Then you have a vested interest in finding out what it was all about,” Bland reasoned.

“I know fine what it was all about!” Hamish could feel another flush of anger spreading from the back of his neck. He could also feel himself being corralled into a situation that was about as far from the simple, peaceful life he enjoyed in Lochdubh as you could get. He felt the problems of the world outside his Highland haven weighing heavy on his shoulders and slumped into a chair, running a hand through his fiery red hair, steadying his temper with a heavy sigh. “It was about secrets, traitors and spies. A coded list o’ names and payments—spies paying for secrets from traitors—and the names Daviot, Anderson and Blair as anagrams at the bottom.”

“I hope you’re not suggesting that myself, DCI Anderson or DCI Blair had anything to do with illicit payments!” spluttered Daviot.

“I don’t think that’s what Hamish meant at all, sir,” said Bland, also taking a seat. “We know the three of you were listed as targets should you have gotten too close to the spy ring. We’ve no reason to suspect anyone ever paid you a nickel.”

“Aye,” Hamish agreed. “The traitor Morgan Mackay admitted as much just afore he died.”

“I see,” Daviot said, stiffly lowering himself into his own chair, slightly galled that, with neither invitation nor permission, two men of inferior rank had seated themselves in his presence—in his own office, for goodness’ sakes!

“But others were paid, Hamish,” Bland went on, “and some of them are still out there.”

“What does it matter?” Hamish argued. “It’s all ancient history now.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Bland said, retrieving the spreadsheet from Hamish. “You see, we cracked the code. We turned the numbers into names—the whole spy ring—we know who they are.”

“So why don’t you just round them up?”

“It’s not that simple. We need help tracking some of them down and we need to do it without anyone knowing we’re onto them. You know what these people are capable of when they think they’ve been cornered.”

“That I do.” Hamish nodded, thinking of Kate Hibbert, a petty blackmailer who had picked on the wrong victim—Morgan Mackay—and had ended up in a watery grave at the bottom of The Corloch. Then the image of Hannah Thomson ghosted into his mind. The old lady had died of a heart attack—literally frightened to death in her own home by Mackay and a Russian thug. Neither of the women had been involved in the so-called spy ring. “Two women were murdered.” Hamish let out a sigh. “I suppose they’re what you folk would call ‘collateral damage.’”

“Not me, Hamish. I’m not one of them. I’m one of the good guys, remember?”

“Spy or spy catcher, you’re all playing the same game and none o’ it is any o’ my business.”

“Protecting the people on your patch—people who have faith in you—is your business, though, isn’t it? We believe something’s happening within the spy ring. We need to find out exactly what’s going on to make sure that no more innocent people get hurt.”

“I’ve enough to do as it is without all o’ this cloak-and-dagger malarkey.”

“We all have our jobs to do, Sergeant,” Daviot said, sounding irritated and impatient. “We all have orders to follow. You, more than any other officer under my command, have to make sure that you follow your orders with as little fuss as possible. Need I remind you how precarious your position is in Lochdubh?”

“Precarious?” Hamish raised an eyebrow. “It’s the police station closures you’re on about, is it? We had a deal…”

“I agreed to do my utmost to keep you and your home in Lochdubh off the list,” Daviot said, pointing a finger at Hamish, “and I will continue to do so, but don’t imagine the pressure from above to cut costs ever diminishes.”

“Are you threatening me?” Hamish bristled.

“It’s not a threat, Macbeth,” Daviot said, letting his hand fall to the desk. “We’re on the same side. You can rely on me to look after your best interests but if you cause problems, you attract the wrong kind of attention from the powers that be. Life then becomes difficult for both of us. Work with Sergeant Bland to resolve his investigation and we can get back to normal again.”

“Sergeant Bland,” Hamish said, slowly. “Why you? Why no’ a secret service team? Why would a police sergeant be sent all this way to track down a bunch o’ spies?”

“I’m a cop all right,” Bland replied, “or, at least, it’s one of the things I have been. Putting me back in a uniform keeps this all as low-key as possible.”

Hamish looked from Daviot to Bland and slowly nodded his head. He knew he had no real choice in the matter but had at least made his feelings clear. Like it or not, he was now lumbered with a partner he didn’t want and an assignment that would doubtless drag on through the autumn and beyond. At least this wasn’t happening at his busiest time, the height of the Highland tourist season. He got to his feet.

“Aye, well,” he said with a resigned shrug, “I suppose we’d better get on wi’ it, then.”

“We’ll need to interview you, sir,” said Bland, also standing, “as well as Mr. Anderson and Mr. Blair.”

“DCI Anderson and I will put ourselves at your disposal here in Strathbane,” said Daviot. “DCI Blair is down in Glasgow. He will be under orders to do the same.”

Hamish and Bland then left Daviot at his desk, Bland picking up a large, black holdall from Daviot’s outer office. Helen, Daviot’s secretary, looked up from her keyboard as they strode past. She expected some insolent quip from Hamish and had been composing a particularly vicious “put-down” ever since she’d booked today’s appointment with her boss. He left without a word and, disappointed, she shelved her unused retort in her memory for future use.

Not a word was spoken between Hamish and Bland until they had made their way down into the car park. Hamish pressed a button on his key fob to unlock his Land Rover, then paused, leaning against its side.

“I suppose,” he said slowly, “you thought I was being a wee bit unhelpful back there.”

“I know you have your reasons,” Bland said calmly. “You want a nice, quiet life in Lochdubh and you see me as a threat to that.”

“Aye, you’re right, but I know you’ll do what you have to do whether I’m playing along or not.”

“And I know you’ll play along because, working alongside me, you can keep an eye on what I’m up to.”

“I think we understand each other,” Hamish said, with a quiet laugh.

“We do,” Bland said, smiling and offering Hamish his hand. “When I was last here we parted as friends. Still friends?”

“Still friends,” Hamish confirmed, shaking hands. “And I’ve no’ forgotten that I’m in your debt. When Blair went mad and pointed that gun at me, he might have shot me if you’d no’ disarmed him.”

“Yeah, I reckon you owe me for that, buddy!” Bland grinned, slinging his bag into the back of the car. “But I’m in no hurry to stand in front of any gunmen, so don’t expect me to call in that marker any time soon!”

“Aye, but neither will I forget,” Hamish assured him, swinging open the driver’s door. “Now let’s get the hell out of Strathbane and back home to Lochdubh.”

The route from police headquarters to the Lochdubh road took them out of Strathbane’s drab city center through an area of shabby low-rise factory buildings made to look all the more dilapidated in the flat light, dulled by the heavy gray clouds lumbering in from the Atlantic.

“Strathbane’s not exactly the jewel of the Highlands, is it?” commented Bland, staring out the window at the litter-strewn car park of a disused industrial unit, its few windows boarded up and its gate chained shut.

“It’s no’ all as bad as this,” Hamish replied, shaking his head when he heard his own words. Was he really defending Strathbane? He hated the place. He hated the run-down shopping area, the concrete tower blocks and the seedy backstreets haunted by drug dealers and their prey. Yet it was still part of the Highlands. It was still like a member of the family and families can bicker, quarrel and criticize among themselves, with their own, but when anyone from outside the family has a bad word to say, it’s a different story. The family stands together. “There are some nice parts. Superintendent Daviot bides here and he has a nice house. Strathbane suffered when the fishing industry collapsed and nothing new they’ve tried to get up and running here has ever really worked.”

“So, ripe for regeneration, eh? But never a patch on Lochdubh.”

“That it’s not,” Hamish agreed, “and never will be.”

The road climbed up out of the town and through a belt of pine trees, emerging onto an area of high moorland where Hamish turned onto the A835 heading toward Inchnadamph.

“This is more the kind of scenery I remember from my last trip to Scotland,” Bland said, waving a hand at the steep, rocky h. . .