Free Death of a Policeman by M. C. Beaton Page B

strange stillness in the landscape. The mountains looked like steel engravings.
    A little cloud of midges had managed to get inside the Land Rover. Hamish pulled to the side of the road, took out a spray of insect repellent, and sprayed the inside of the car. Then he realised he had forgotten to open a window and was doubled up with a fit of coughing. He wiped his streaming eyes and set off again.
    He parked outside the restaurant and waited until he saw Jimmy driving up before getting out of the Land Rover.
    â€œWhat did Blair say?” Hamish asked him.
    â€œI didn’t tell him. If anyone’s been getting free meals or drinks here, Blair’s bound to be one of them. Let’s get started.”
    The manager, Bruce Jamieson, had little black eyes which shone with an odd light when Jimmy asked to speak to the maître d’ who had been on duty the night before. “That’ll be Paolo Gonzales,” said Bruce. “Only does evenings.”
    â€œThen give us his address,” said Jimmy.
    â€œWhat’s this about?”
    â€œJust want a wee word with him. Come on, laddie, get that address.”
    They waited a quarter of an hour and were about to go in search for the manager when he reappeared and handed them a slip of paper.
    â€œThanks,” said Jimmy. “Come on, Hamish.”
    Outside, Hamish asked, “Where does he live?”
    â€œGot a wee cottage down the road from here towards Strathbane. Follow me.”
    As Hamish was about to climb into the Land Rover, he turned and looked at the restaurant. Bruce was standing outside, staring at him.
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    The cottage turned out to be a low whitewashed building which had once served as a croft house.
    Jimmy hammered on the door, and they waited. At last it was opened by the tall man they recognised from the tape. He had a cadaverous face and pale grey eyes under hooded lids.
    â€œMr. Gonzales?” asked Jimmy.
    â€œThat’s me.”
    Jimmy flashed his warrant card. “Just a wee word. Can we come inside?”
    Gonzales shrugged and then stood aside to let them in. The front door led straight into a living-room- cum -kitchen. It was sparsely furnished with a round table and four upright chairs. A battered armchair was placed in front of a large television set. A peat fire smoked in the hearth. Gonzales waved an arm to indicate they should sit at the table.
    â€œWhat’s this about?” he asked. He had a faint Spanish accent.
    â€œWe’ve been checking the videotapes at the restaurant,” said Jimmy. “We are interested in two of your customers, Johnny Livia and Jessie McTavish. You presented Jessie with something under a silver salver. She put the contents in her handbag and then went to the toilet. What did you give her?”
    Gonzales shrugged. “Oh, that? She’s got a sweet tooth. The chef makes special marzipan sweets for her.”
    â€œPull the other one,” said Jimmy. “Why would she tip sweets into her handbag?”
    â€œOnly four of them,” said Gonzales blandly, “and they were wrapped in tissue paper.”
    â€œHave you ever seen anyone dealing drugs in the restaurant?” asked Hamish.
    â€œI’m shocked you should even ask such a question,” said Gonzales. “Seven Steps is a gourmet restaurant. All the best people come, including Superintendent Daviot and his wife.”
    They persevered with questions but couldn’t get anywhere and at last they left.
    Outside the cottage, Jimmy’s mobile phone rang. He listened and then said, “Right away, sir.”
    He turned to Hamish. “Daviot’s summoned us and he’s furious. Let’s get it over with.”
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    â€œWhat,” demanded Daviot as soon as they were shown into his office, “do you mean by questioning a respectable waiter from the best restaurant in the Highlands and implying they were dealing drugs?”
    Jimmy patiently told him about the