Death of a Liar by M. C. Beaton Page B

detectives, and SWAT team members gathered in a vacant lot near the tower block.
    â€œQuietly, lads,” said Jimmy. They all spread out, policemen covering back and front entrances of the tower block while the SWAT team went in.
    Hamish approached Jimmy. “Were you trying to keep me out of this?”
    â€œYes, I was,” said Jimmy. “It was for your own good. I didn’t want one of them trying to kill you.”
    â€œHavers,” said Hamish bitterly.
    The very air around the dismal tower blocks was foul, smelling of sour earth, urine, and beer.
    Suddenly they could faintly hear shouts and yells coming from the top of the tower block where Hamish had been told Cameron lived.
    He silently prayed that Scully was right.
    He heaved a sigh of relief when a handcuffed procession escorted by the SWAT team finally emerged. He recognised Percy Cameron and wondered illogically whether being named Percy had driven him to a life of crime. Three other men were with him, along with a spotty youth.
    Jimmy had a quick consultation with the leader of the SWAT team and then returned to Hamish. Pleased with the success of the raid, Jimmy was now feeling guilty about trying to keep Hamish out of it. “Drive me back, Hamish,” he said, “and I’ll fill you in.”
    As they headed back to police headquarters, Jimmy said, “The forensic lot are on their way. Masses of every type of class A drug in that flat and a wee laboratory for making crystal meth. They’ll all go away for a long time. Do you want to sit in on the interviews?”
    â€œI’d like to interview Wayne Forest first to make sure he got his orders from Cameron,” said Hamish.
    â€œRight,” said Jimmy. “I’ll arrange it.”
    But Jimmy experienced a sharp pang of jealousy when they were met by Daviot, saying, “Well done, Hamish. We need more men like you in Strathbane.”
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    Wayne started by demanding a lawyer and was told sharply that under Scots law, he would only get a lawyer when the police decided to let him have one.
    He was an unsavoury youth with lank greasy hair and prematurely bent shoulders, probably from slouching from an early age.
    Wayne stared at them defiantly as the questioning began in earnest once the preliminaries were over.
    â€œDid Cameron order you to shoot me?” asked Hamish.
    Wayne smirked. “No comment.”
    Hamish was normally a placid, easy-going man. But he saw red. This useless piece of garbage had caused Dick to save his life, trapping Hamish forever after, amen, in the police station with him.
    â€œYou useless piece of shit,” roared Hamish. He marched round the desk, picked up Wayne, and slammed him up against the wall.
    â€œIt was Cameron. He tellt me tae do it,” wailed Wayne, and burst into tears.
    Suddenly appalled at his own outburst, Hamish lifted Wayne gently back into his chair and said quietly, “Now be a good wee laddie and write it all down.”
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    Later, when Wayne’s confession was secured, and Jimmy and Hamish had retreated to the police canteen, Jimmy said, “It got a good result. But what came over you, man? I’ve never seen you lose your cool like that before.”
    Hamish shrugged. “I wanted an end o’ it. There are still two murders to solve.”
    â€œWhen we’ve finished our coffee, we’d best get back downstairs, see what they’ve got on the Leighs. Then you’d better get back to Cromish,” said Jimmy.
    But there was very little to learn as there had not been any documents, passports, or credit cards found in the old school. The sale had been handled by an estate agent in Dingwall, employed by Strathbane’s schools department. The full amount had been paid by a cheque from a bank in Luxembourg and signed by an H. J. Story. Luxembourg banks were notoriously secretive but had finally told Interpol that the mysterious Mr. Story had cleared out the account