Free Death of a Policeman by M. C. Beaton

off. To his relief, it was not a good shot, more like a blurred image.
    â€œLet me see the tape of who was in the restaurant tonight,” said Hamish.
    As Hamish slotted in the tape, he could hear approaching sirens. “You’d best go out and talk to them,” he said. “I’ll go on looking.”
    He watched the dining room tape for the previous evening. He studied the faces as the camera panned from table to table. The he uttered an exclamation and hit the freeze button. “See anything?” asked Dick.
    â€œSuperintendent Daviot and his missus,” said Hamish gloomily. He set the tape in motion again.
    â€œWhat are you doing?” came Jimmy’s voice from behind him. “You’re supposed to be looking for the man who threw that rock through the window.”
    â€œI just wanted to see who was in the restaurant earlier.”
    â€œWhy?”
    Hamish swivelled round but could not see the manager. He said in a low voice, “You know why.”
    â€œThis is becoming an obsession,” snapped Jimmy. “Let me see the tape of the man throwing the rock.”
    Hamish changed the tapes. Jimmy studied the motorcyclist. “That’s a fat lot of good,” he said. “This must be an old system. The images aren’t very sharp.”
    â€œBut it’s a motorcyclist again,” said Hamish. “And Cyril was murdered by a motorbiker. Don’t you find that odd?”
    â€œMurderers don’t go around throwing rocks.”
    â€œSo why did he pick this restaurant? There must be a connection.”
    â€œMurdo Bentley phoned Daviot and got him out of bed. We’re to treat this as priority. A forensic team are on their way. Start tomorrow and check around and see if any bikes have been stolen. I’ll take over here.”
    Hamish slid the tape of the dining room up under his regulation sweater. He held on to his stomach in case it slipped down. “Got indigestion,” he said, making for the door.
    Dick followed him out.
    Before he got in the Land Rover, Hamish scanned the ground nervously for tyre tracks, but the expanse of tarmac outside the restaurant was dry. No tracks.
    On the road back, Dick asked, “Why did you steal thon tape? I saw you shoving it up your jumper.”
    â€œI want to look at it back at the station in peace and quiet.”
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    In his living room, Hamish slotted in the tape and he and Dick settled back to watch it. “If Daviot’s getting free meals, that’s certainly going to make life difficult,” said Hamish.
    â€œFreeze it!” cried Dick.
    â€œFrozen. What?”
    â€œThon’s the provost and his missus. Michty me!”
    â€œLet’s just go in for wild speculation,” said Hamish. “Let say Murdo is a criminal. What better security to have than to entertain the great and good of Strathbane wi’ freebies?”
    â€œI would ha’ thought you were havering afore,” said Dick. “But thon manager fair gied me the creeps.”
    Hamish started the tape again. “Wait a bit,” he suddenly said. “I’ll go back. Now watch the maître d’ going ower to that table. He’s a different one from the one in the brasserie.”
    Dick watched as the maître d’ approached a heavyset businessman and a blonde woman at a corner table.
    â€œFreeze!” shouted Dick again. “Thon’s Jessie McTavish, one of the most expensive tarts in town.”
    â€œWho’s the man with her?”
    â€œDon’t know.”
    â€œWell, watch now,” said Hamish, starting up the tape. The maître d’ approached the table with a little silver salver. He tilted open the lid. The man nodded. Jessie opened her capacious handbag, and the contents were tipped in.
    â€œBack again and freeze,” said Hamish. “Let’s see if we can find what’s under that salver.”
    â€œCan’t see,” said Dick. “But