when he was told he could go back home and he had celebrated in The Glen by entertaining the surprised locals to a concert. He shook his head but found himself being propelled towards the piano. He shrugged and gave in.
P.C. Mary Graham quietly pushed open the door of the pub, hoping, as usual, to catch someone breaking the law. She stood there amazed.
Hamish Macbeth was standing by the piano, his fiery hair gleaming in the harsh neon lights of the pub. He was singing “My Love Is Like a Red, Red Rose.” Hamish was blessed with a good voice, that kind of voice which is often affectionately described as an Irish parlour tenor. But Mary noticed only that Hamish Macbeth was leaning on the piano, singing, and surrounded by a group of dirty drunks, and he was not in uniform.
She turned and sprinted for police headquarters. As she arrived, panting and breathless, Superintendent Peter Daviot was just coming down the stairs. Now Mary should have reported to the desk sergeant who would have taken the matter higher, but she was too desperate to get Hamish into trouble to bother about the niceties of police procedure. Daviot had been looking for Blair without success. He had Hamish’s report in his briefcase. He had phoned the forensic department to learn they had not started to examine the car because Blair had told them the matter was not urgent.
He listened in amazement to Mary’s story. One of his officers was howling drunk in one of Strathbane’s sleaziest pubs.
“We’ll use my car,” said Daviot. He was always worried about the police force’s public image. He prayed one of the local reporters would not decide to visit the pub before he got there, the super being rather naive about the press and not knowing that if the papers wrote stories about every roistering copper, there would be little room on their pages for anything else.
He entered the pub just as Hamish was entertaining the company with a rendering of “The Rowan Tree.” Daviot stopped short, listening to the mellow voice soaring in the well-known sentimental ballad. Several of the drunks were crying.
Hamish finished his song to noisy applause and shook his head when they demanded more. Then he saw the super and walked forward with a smile which quickly faded as he saw P.C. Graham’s avid face behind the super’s shoulder.
“Evening, sir,” said Hamish mildly. “Did you get my report?”
“Yes, thank you,” said Daviot. “It should have gone to Blair, you know.”
“I sent him a copy as well,” said Hamish. “How did you know I was here?”
“P. C. Graham was most concerned about your behaviour. She said you were drunk.”
“I wonder why,” said Hamish pleasantly.
“I suppose because you are not in uniform and singing in a low pub.”
“This pub,” said Hamish firmly, “was on my beat. You are very concerned with police image, sir, and I think you will agree that if you get along with the local community, then people are more likely to come to you in time of need.”
“Just so,” said the super. “Just what I always say.”
“You will also agree that it iss verra important to get the facts right before troubling anyone. P.C. Graham should hae asked me a few questions. That way, she would hae found there iss no reason for me to wear uniform when off duty and that I wass not drunk.”
“You mean, she did not speak to you?”
“Not a word.”
Daviot swung round. “Get back to your beat, Officer,” he said sternly to P.C. Graham, “and then come and see me tomorrow.”
“Aye, that’s right,” said one of the locals, peering over the super’s arm. “Tell Typhoid Mary to get the hell oot.”
P.C. Graham threw Hamish a venomous look before she left.
“Come out to the car, Hamish,” said the super. “I can’t talk in here.”
Hamish waved goodbye and followed Daviot out.
In the car, Daviot opened his briefcase and took out Hamish’s report. “You say here that Mrs. Baird had employed a private detective agency to find out about these men?”
“Yes,” replied Hamish, “but I couldnae find any sign of it, nor of that book she said she was writing.”
“And what did Blair say to that?”
“He didnae seem interested,” said Hamish, wondering at the same time why sinking the knife in Blair’s fat back should make him feel so mean.
“Very well. Go back to Lochdubh and leave the matter with me. It is entirely your own fault, Hamish, that you are not in charge of this case. You have avoided promotion deliberately. I am not complaining. Good village policemen are hard to find. On the other hand, I think it is time you took a good look at yourself. You should be thinking of marriage, for example.”
“I always wonder why detectives get married,” said Hamish. “I mean, they’re hardly ever home and the only friends they have outside the force are villains.”
“A good, sensible wife would make allowances. It’s time you settled down. I know my wife got some nonsense into her head that you might marry Priscilla Halburton-Smythe, but I said to her you would be better off with some strong village girl to look after you and iron your shirts.”
“I am a dab hand wi’ the iron myself,” said Hamish defensively.
“Well, you’ll just need to go back to your regular duties and assist the detectives when and where they need you. You are a sore disappointment to me, Macbeth.”
And by that loss of his first name, Hamish knew the super was indeed angry with him.
But Daviot had given him a lot to think about. Blair would be back in Lochdubh on the morrow, throwing his weight around, and making life hell for everyone in general and Hamish Macbeth in particular. But to join the detectives, to live in Strathbane, thought Hamish as he drove slowly along the waterfront at Lochdubh. Would no one ever understand the happiness and contentment of the truly unambitious man?
Priscilla certainly did not. And there, as if his thoughts had conjured her up, standing outside the police station under the blue lamp, was Priscilla.
He jumped down from the car. “When did you get back?”
“Today,” said Priscilla. “Any chance of a cup of tea?”
Hamish led the way into the kitchen. He suddenly remembered that once when she had been in love with a yuppie called John Harrington, Priscilla had been a whole week in Lochdubh before she had thought to call on him.
John Harrington had been arrested for insider trading. Did Priscilla visit him in prison?
“See anything of that Harrington fellow?” he asked after he had made a pot of tea and they were sitting at the kitchen table.
“No, I can’t. He was out on bail and he skipped the country.”
“There was nothing about it in the papers,” said Hamish.
“It was in the English editions. They probably didn’t bother in Scotland.”
The bell went at the front of the station. “Aren’t you going to answer it?” asked Priscilla.
Hamish shook his head. “It’ll be the press. Let them go and bother Alison. So you’re up for the summer. How are things at home?”
“Not very good. Daddy’s blood pressure is dangerously high. Brodie says he’s got to go on a diet, but Daddy says that’s a lot of rubbish. You can’t tell him anything. Something’s worrying him badly. Mummy says he won’t talk about it and just snaps that there’s nothing up.”
“You look tired,” said Hamish, studying her.
The beautiful oval of her face looked as flawless as ever, but her mouth drooped at the corners and her eyes were weary and sad.
Priscilla shrugged. “It wasn’t a very good homecoming, which is why I am here. I felt in need of a friend. What’s all this about Maggie Baird dying? Everyone thinks you a fool for saying it was murder. Tell me about it.”
So Hamish did, ending up with, “Of course, it can’t really be classified as murder since she died of a heart attack, so whenever we find out who rigged the car, he or she will be charged with manslaughter, but everyone knew about her weak heart, so to my mind, it’s murder.”
