at all this leisure time. The shops were full of people changing gifts and people clutching bits of toys which they had been supposed to assemble at home, but whose instructions they could not follow, probably because the instructions had been badly translated from Hong Kong Chinese. Christmas had done its usual merry work of setting husband against wife, relative against relative, and spreading bad will among men in general. People looked overfed and hung over and desperately worried about how much they had already spent.
A drunk man on the corner was singing, “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” It sounded like a sneer.
“I hate this time of the year,” said Hamish. “Hardly any daylight. I wish they’d make Christmas a religious festival and stop all this nonsense of decorations, cards, and gifts. A waste of money.” Then he blushed, because he was staying in Glasgow at Harriet’s expense and did not want her to think him mean.
“The trouble with Christmas,” said Harriet, “is that everyone somehow wants to recapture the glitter and magic of childhood, and it never happens if you look for it. I sometimes think that the people who spend Christmas serving meals to the homeless get the best out of it. Easter’s a different matter, but Christmas will always be a pagan festival. The Americans have the best festival – Thanksgiving. No stupid presents, just a good dinner and thanks to God, that’s the way Christmas should be.”
And having thoroughly depressed each other, Hamish and Harriet made their way back to Diarmuid’s to return the keys.
???
Diarmuid seemed almost glad to see them this time. He insisted they come indoors and join him for a drink. Harriet privately thought that the sheer relief of never having to see his wife again had hit him at last. As they sat and talked, Hamish discovered to his amazement that Diarmuid thought his investigations merely a matter of police form. “I never knew you chaps were so thorough,” said Diarmuid, sipping a large whisky. “And all because of an accident.”
“Well, just to be even more thorough,” said Hamish, looking about, “could I inspect Heather’s things?”
“I gave her clothes to Oxfam,” said Diarmuid. “Is that what you mean?”
He was wearing an open-necked shirt with a silk cravat. He felt the cravat and a worried frown marred his good looks. He stood in front of the mirror over the fireplace and carefully straightened his cravat. He looked at his reflection in the glass and slowly smiled. Hamish thought that Diarmuid had forgotten their very existence. He was looking at what he loved most in the world.
“Not clothes,” said Hamish. “I was thinking more of paper and notebooks.”
“Mmm?” Diarmuid turned as reluctantly away from his reflection as a lover does from the face of his beloved. “Oh, Jessie was round yesterday afternoon and cleaned the place up. She’s got a kind heart. I couldn’t bear to do it myself.”
“And where did she put the stuff?”
“Into a couple of big garbage bags. Why?”
“Where are the garbage bags?” said Hamish, getting to his feet.
“Downstairs, ready for collection. As a matter of fact, the garbage truck should be along about now. What…?”
He looked in amazement as Hamish and Harriet ran from the room. Then he turned back to the glass and practised a slow, enigmatic smile. He thought that if he could raise one eyebrow like Roger Moore, it would enhance the effect.
Hamish, with Harriet behind him, hurtled out into the street. A small man was just heaving up two bags of garbage to put into the crusher.
“I want these back,” shouted Hamish.
The man hurled them down on the pavement, shrugged and followed the now slowly moving garbage truck along the street.
“Treasure trove,” said Hamish. “Let’s get these back inside and hae a look.”
Diarmuid was still practising how to raise that eyebrow as they entered the sitting-room, Hamish holding the two bags.
“We’ll chust go through these,” said Hamish.
“Mmm.” Diarmuid did not even turn round. There must be some way he could achieve it, but try as he would, both eyebrows kept going up at the same time.
Hamish opened one bag and Harriet the other and they began to sift, through the papers. Then Hamish whistled through his teeth. “Look at this.”
Harriet took the proffered page.
There was no doubt, it was part of a steamy novel. He took it from her and asked Diarmuid, “Is this your wife’s handwriting?”
Diarmuid turned reluctantly away from the mirror. “Yes, that’s Heather’s, all right. What’s this all about?”
“Did you really call Jessie to get her to come to Eileencraig?” asked Hamish. “Or did she phone you?”
Diarmuid looked uneasy. “Well, it’s hard to remember. I was in shock.”
“It’s verra important!”
“Well,” mumbled Diarmuid, “she did phone me, as a matter of fact, just to find out how I was getting along, and I told her about Heather’s death and she said she would come up right away. She asked me to phone and arrange for a boat to collect her at Oban.”
Without asking his permission, Hamish picked up the phone and dialled Jessie’s number. There was no reply. “Come on,” he said to Harriet. “I’ve an awful feeling she’s gone.”
They took a taxi the short distance to Jessie’s. It turned out to be a basement flat. He did not even bother to ring the bell. There was a forlorn, deserted air about the place. A woman was leaning against the railings outside talking to another woman. Hamish approached them.
“Have you seen Miss Jessie Maclean this morning?” he asked.
“Aye,” said one of the women placidly.
“Do you know where she was going?” Hamish demanded, “Shopping?”
“No’ unless it was shopliftin’,” said the woman and her friend laughed heartily at her wit. “She had two suitcases. Yes, she left about an hour ago wi’ her man.” – “What man?”
“Her fella. An accountant, I think that’s what she said.”
Hamish thought hard. Spain! That was where she had said she might go. He turned to the woman again. “May I use your phone? I am a policeman.”
“He must be in trouble again, Betty,” said the woman’s friend.
“In trouble? What this about trouble?” asked Hamish feverishly.
“Her man, her boyfriend. He’d done a stretch in prison, I know that,” said the woman called Betty, “because Mrs. Queen doon the road’s son used tae go tae school wi’ him and recognised nun and knew all about him.”
“Phone, please,” begged Hamish.
“I’ll take him in,” said Betty to her friend. She led Hamish up to the front door above Jessie’s basement, opened it with her key and let him into a dark hall. Hamish and Harriet waited in an agony of impatience while she fumbled with the key to the door of her ground-floor flat.
“In the hall on the table,” said Betty.
The hall was actually a dim corridor. Hamish searched through the phone book and then dialled Glasgow Airport. “Yes,” came the metallic voice from the other end in reply to Hamish’s question. “There’s a plane due to take off for Spain. It’s a charter flight delayed for mechanical reasons, but expected to leave any minute now.”
Hamish asked to be put through to airport security and introduced himself. “Find Out if there’s a Jessie Maclean on the flight to Spain, that charter flight.”
There was a long wait and then he was told there was no one of that name on the flight. He turned to the woman who was standing in the hall with a small pocket calculator, obviously working out how much to charge him for the call. “What’s the boyfriend’s name?” he demanded.
“Macdonald,” she said. “Willie Macdonald.”
Hamish spoke quickly into the phone and then waited impatiently.
Back came the reply after five agonizing minutes. “Yes, there is a Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald on board.”
“There’s a murder suspect on that plane,” said Hamish. “Get Mr. and Mrs. Macdonald off it and keep them at
