Death of a Policeman by M. C. Beaton Page A

were hard at work. One was washing the floor with bleach while the other was wiping all the surfaces.
    Hamish wriggled away as far as he could and then stood up and ran. When he thought he was a far enough distance away, he phoned Jimmy. He told him what he had seen. “They’re covering up some crime,” he said.
    â€œSit tight,” said Jimmy. “I’ll be over right away.”
    Hamish returned to his post behind the gorse bush. He fretted that the men would be long gone before Jimmy arrived, but finally heaved a sigh of relief when he heard cars arriving.
    He hurried round to the front of the house in time to hear one of the men saying, “We were just cleaning up. This is a rented cottage. Paolo’s gone back to Spain.”
    â€œYou pair stay outside,” barked Jimmy. “Names?”
    â€œI’m Andy Campbell and this is my brither, Davy.”
    Jimmy turned to Hamish. “Get a suit and follow me in.”
    Hamish borrowed a forensic suit from one of the policemen, covered his boots, and joined Jimmy inside the cottage.
    â€œKeep ower by the door, Hamish,” said Jimmy. “A forensic team’s on its road.”
    â€œI guess the bedroom’s upstairs,” said Hamish. “I wish we could take a look at it.”
    â€œWell, we can’t until forensics have done their work. We’ll get this pair down to headquarters for questioning.”
    It turned out to be a long day. The brothers did odd jobs for a company called Highland Rentals. Neither of them had a record. The initial forensic report said that strong bleach had been poured over the stone kitchen floor, and so far there was no sign of anything sinister. Paolo Gonzales had relatives in Malaga, and a check at Inverness airport showed he had taken a morning flight to Malaga the day before. The brothers were released.
    â€œWaste o’ time,” said Jimmy. “Go home, Hamish.”
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    Hamish drove out on the road to Lochdubh and stopped to let Sonsie and Lugs out for a run in the heather. He stared up at the starry sky and thought hard. There were still, he felt sure, a whole lot of questions that hadn’t been asked. Who, for example, owned Highland Rentals? Their offices were in Strathbane. If he called on them in the morning, he would get a rocket from Strathbane for poaching on their territory.
    Then he would like to see the CCTV shots of who exactly got on the Malaga plane. He suddenly decided to risk the wrath of the Inverness police and call at the airport in the morning. He could ask Inverness police to do it but they didn’t know what Paolo looked like and he did. And it would mean waiting to try to find a photograph—and Hamish had a feeling that all photographs of the maître d’ might have disappeared.
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    Jimmy phoned when he got back to the station. “Highland Rentals seems as clean as a whistle,” he said.
    â€œWho owns it?”
    â€œA woman called Beryl Shuttleworth. Actually she lives near your village. Got a place out past the Tommel Castle Hotel. Called The Firs.”
    â€œI know that. I thought old Mr. Anstruther lived there.”
    â€œYou’re not checking on the folk on your beat. He died a month ago, and his daughter sold it to the Shuttleworth woman.”
    â€œI don’t remember any funeral,” said Hamish, who knew that local funerals were a big event.
    â€œHe was originally from Somerset, and that’s where the daughter took him to be buried.”
    â€œI might call on her.”
    â€œDon’t! She’s a friend o’ Daviot’s missus.”
    â€œIs all investigation to be hampered because of Daviot’s friends?”
    â€œIf you want to keep your station, you’ll go carefully.”
    â€œDid anyone think to check the CCTV cameras at Inverness airport to see if Gonzales really left?”
    â€œWait a bit…Some report’s just coming in.”
    Hamish waited, hearing