a boat and fishing tackle. Anyone for fishing?”
They all agreed, with the exception of Bob, who sneered, “Fishing’s for fools.”
Dermott Brett said he would take his car into Skag because he didn’t want the children too tired with the walk before the day started. “Are you taking Towser?” asked Heather.
“Yes,” said Hamish. “He likes boats.”
Miss Gunnery said she would take her car as well and offered Hamish a lift. She frowned when Cheryl and Tracey begged a lift as well but said reluctantly that they could come too. Andrew and Doris said nothing. Hamish sensed a waiting in Doris. She was hoping she could slip away.
Nonetheless he was surprised when they all gathered on the harbour to find that Andrew had driven Doris in his car.
“Where’s Bob?” asked Dermott.
“He doesn’t want to come,” said Doris curtly.
They went to a hut at the back of the harbour where a surly man said he would supply them with tackle and take them out. They all paid their share of the cost. It was a large open boat with an outboard. The day was grey and still, the water flat and oily.
The boat owner, Jamie MacPherson, issued them with old lifejackets and even found some small ones for the children. He tried to object to Towser until he saw the party was going to cancel the trip if the dog wasn’t allowed on board.
They all climbed down a seaweed-slippery ladder from the jetty and on to the boat. Hamish had taken a dislike to Jamie, but he had to admit the man was efficient. He had small rods for Heather and Callum and even a small stick with a thread and a bent pin on it for the toddler, Fiona. They chugged out into the North Sea until the boat stopped and they began to rig up their lines. There were various false alarms. Doris caught a bit of seaweed and June Brett, an old shoe.
The day was hazy and lazy and then Heather said suddenly, “Someone ought to kill Mr Harris.”
“That’s enough of that, miss,” said her mother sharply and then looked apologetically at Doris.
“A lot of people want to kill Bob,” said Doris. “Don’t get angry with the child.”
“Why did you marry him?” asked Heather in her clear piping voice.
“People change,” said Doris on a sigh.
“It’s not easy to kill someone,” said Hamish, wondering if one of them might betray that he or she had searched his suitcase and knew he was a policeman.
Andrew laughed and then asked the question Hamish had been dreading. “Which branch of the civil service are you in, Hamish?”
“Min of Ag and Fish,” said Hamish, meaning the Ministry of Agriculture and Fisheries.
“Anyone there you would like to kill?”
“Aye,” said Hamish, thinking of the bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, “there’s this big fat Glaswegian wi’ a sewer mouth.”
“I always think the best murders are when they are committed by someone who doesn’t know the victim,” said Miss Gunnery.
“There iss no such thing as a good murder,” said Hamish repressively. His Highland accent took on that sibilancy it always did when he was upset. “There iss nothing good in the taking of another’s life.”
“Well, I think that awfy Bob Harris waud be better dead,” said Tracey.
“Please do not say such things in front of Doris,” said Andrew sharply.
“She waud be glad tae see the last o’ him,” retorted Cheryl.
“In a book I was reading at school, the wicked girl in the remove was killed with a rare South African poison,” said Heather.
“You won’t get rare South African poisons in Skag,” said Hamish. “Murders are usually done in rage and they’re dreary and simple – a blow tae the head, a push down the stairs, an electric heater chucked in the bath, or something that looks like a climbing accident.”
“If he had come with us,” said Heather eagerly, “we could have pushed him overboard and said it was an accident.”
“What about Mr MacPherson there?” said Hamish, jerking his thumb at the surly man at the tiller.
“We would need to pay him hush money,” said Heather.
She was told sharply by her mother to be quiet, but the fish weren’t biting and somehow the subject of killing Bob Harris just wouldn’t go away. Miss Gunnery raised a laugh by saying the food at the boarding-house was enough to kill anyone, and that started a discussion of the various methods of poisoning, from simple broken glass in the pudding to arsenic in the tea.
Hamish was relieved when they drifted into a shoal of mackerel and shrieks of excitement as the fish were landed drove thoughts of murder out of the heads of the party. Hamish agreed as they made their way back to the harbour that he would phone the hotel and tell the Rogerses that he would cook the mackerel for their tea. They ate sandwiches in the pub and then headed home with their catch, Hamish having found out that there was to be a dance in the Church of Scotland hall that evening and suggesting they all go. Dermott said he would stay behind with the children so that June could have a night out. They seemed to have the ideal marriage.
He did not expect that Doris would be able to go with them, but Bob Harris was absent from the tea table as they laughed and joked and ate grilled mackerel and voted Hamish cook of the year.
They gathered in the lounge to sort out who would go in which car. Cheryl and Tracey were both wearing very short black leather skirts with very high heels and skimpy tops with plunging necklines. Their blonded hair had been backcombed and left to stand on end. Miss Gunnery was a surprise. She had left off her glasses and her brown hair was combed down to her shoulders, soft and wavy. She was wearing a plain white blouse and black skirt and modest heels but she looked softer and more vulnerable. June was amazing in a shocking-pink chiffon dress with thin straps and a fake diamond necklace. Doris Brett had brushed down her hair and put on a plain black dress. She had a very good figure and Hamish noticed gloomily that Andrew Biggar was taking in that fact as well.
Miss Gunnery asked Hamish to drive her car, saying she couldn’t see a thing without her glasses. Cheryl and Tracey went with them.
Hamish had thought it would be a sort of ceilidh with reels and country dances, but it turned out to be a disco full of thin, badly nourished teenagers, brought up on a diet of bread and frozen food. Scotland has one of the worst diets in the world, shunning fresh fruit and green vegetables. Scotland is also famous for bad teeth and Hamish noticed that some of the young teenagers had dentures. The old idea still prevailed. If you have a toothache, get the tooth extracted.
“I can’t do that sort of dancing,” said Miss Gunnery. “They look like a lot of dervishes.”
“Oh, you jist throw yourself around,” said Hamish amiably. “Follow me.”
His long, gangling figure threw itself this way and that, and since his movements seemed to have absolutely nothing to do with the beat of the music, the others joined him on the floor. If Hamish could make such a fool of himself, then they could, too.
It turned out to be a happy evening, and the teenagers who came up to talk to them turned into ordinary pleasant young people. One youth approached Hamish and whispered, “Hey, Mac, we got a drink outside.” Glad to see some of the old Highland traditions still existed, Hamish followed him outside, where he joined a group of youths. One passed him a half bottle of Scotch and Hamish took a hearty swig.
“Nice to see young people still around the villages,” he said. “I thought you would all be in town for the evening.”
“We hiv our ain fun,” said one, proving it by lighting up a joint. “Fancy a bit o’ skirt, grand-dad?”
Hamish, who was in his thirties, ignored the ‘grand-dad’ and the smell of cannabis. He was on holiday, and unless someone slew someone in front of him, he did not plan to become a policeman again until the holiday was over.
“I’m with my own party,” he said amiably.
“Och, them,” said the youth derisively. “I mean bint, get a leg ower.”
“Oh,” said Hamish, the light dawning. “You mean a brothel.”
“Aye, Maggie Simpson’s, down the end of the main street.”
Hamish wondered suddenly if that had been the house he had seen Bob Harris leaving. “Not tonight,” he said. He crossed the road to the pub, bought a half bottle of whisky, and returned and passed it around. He found that
