between the stones.”
“There were rugs on the floor when I was there.”
“Indeed. Our killer must have taken them away.”
“And the ink?”
“The only way I can think to explain it is this: Perhaps the mothballs were melted by heat into black liquid. The liquid was mixed with whisky. Say someone held a gun on him and forced him to drink the mixture. When he started to vomit, his attacker watched him until he died and then poured ink into the mouth. Rage over, the killer suddenly decided to fake a suicide and closed the mouth and wiped off the excess ink. Then he scrubbed away the vomit and took away the rugs after typing that suicide note on the computer.
“I got John Heppel’s medical records. He suffered from high blood pressure and his heart was weak. I should think he died very quickly. There would not be much vomit. I decided to call on you because it is the most interesting case I have come across. So hate-filled and elaborate. I saw the villagers attacking him on television.”
“It can’t be one of them,” protested Hamish.
“Why not?”
“I can just about imagine one of them lashing out, but this one was planned.”
“Do you know anyone in Lochdubh who would have mothballs?”
“About everyone, I should think. I’ve got them myself. I found my uniform has moth holes in it a while back, so I bought some mothballs from Patel’s grocery.”
“But surely it must be someone in the village. This tea is very good, by the way.”
“It’s the water. What about Strathbane? Heppel was doing something for television there. I’d like a word with them, but I fear Mr. Blair would not permit it.”
“Give me a minute,” she said. Professor Forsyth took out her mobile phone and walked outside the police station.
After a few minutes she came back. “I’ve just had a word with Mr. Daviot. He says he will get Jimmy Anderson to meet you there.” She grinned. “Mr. Blair is to continue to interview the villagers. Any more of that tea?”
¦
The Currie sisters, Nessie and Jessie, were ushered into the mobile police unit parked on the waterfront. Blair was sitting behind a desk, having finished with his press interview.
He eyed them with disfavour, thinking they would both look well in a production
“Sit down, ladies,” barked Blair.
They sat down primly on two hard chairs and faced him.
A rising gale outside shrieked around the mobile police station.
“I hope you’ve got this van well anchored down, anchored down,” said Jessie. “The wind’s awfy strong, awfy strong.”
“Forget about the wind,” barked Blair. “Why did you murder John Heppel?”
“We didn’t, you silly man,” said Nessie.
“Where were you on the Monday night when John Heppel was murdered?”
“At what time would that be?”
“Between five in the evening and ten.”
“That’s easy,” said Nessie smugly. A great buffet of wind rocked the mobile police station, and the sisters held on to the edge of the desk.
“I said that’s easy,” shouted Nessie above the shriek and roar of the wind. “As representatives of the Lochdubh Mothers’ Union, we were visiting the Strathbane Mothers’ Union. We took the bus to Strathbane at four- thirty, and we didn’t get back until after ten.”
“I’ll check your alibi,” said Blair.
Both sisters rose to their feet.
“Oh, you do that, you daft auld man, auld man,” said Jessie.
“I’ll hae the pair of you for insulting a police officer.” Blair got up as well.
At that moment there was a tremendous howling, shrieking sound approaching down the loch.
The sisters, who knew the terrors of the sudden Sutherland storms which sometimes came roaring in from the Atlantic, scampered for the door and flung it open and escaped onto the waterfront.
A few moments after they had left, a mini-tornado picked up the mobile police van and threw it like a child’s toy into the loch before roaring on up and dying on the mountains.
Alistair Taggart, who had been sheltering in a doorway, ran across the road and down the steps to the pebbly beach. He stripped off down to his underpants, waded into the loch, and began to swim.
Blair was struggling and gasping. “I cannae swim,” he choked out.
Alistair grabbed him as he was about to sink. “Lie still,” he shouted, “and I’ll pull you in.”
Two constables who had been with Blair were already battling for the shore. The press had erupted out of the local bar and were busy filming as the wind howled and roared.
Blair was carried by the villagers into the pub.
Jessma Gardener, soaked and shivering, held out a microphone to Alistair, who was being wrapped in blankets. “You’re a hero. What is your name?”
“Alistair Taggart.”
“What do you do, Alistair?”
Alistair looked straight into the camera lens. “I am an author,” he said. “I write in the Gaelic.”
¦
Hamish found Jimmy in high good humour when he arrived at police headquarters in Strathbane. “Hamish, you’ve got to look at this video I made of the lunchtime news.”
“I’m anxious to get started.”
“You cannae miss seeing this.” Jimmy slotted in a video. “Sit yourself down, laddie, and be prepared for the show of the century.”
The windswept waterfront with the police mobile unit appeared. “This is an amateur video from Mr. Patel,” said Jimmy. “The press were all in the pub at the beginning of the action.”
Hamish saw the mobile police unit begin to rock dangerously. The door opened and the Currie sisters hurtled out. The wind propelled them at great speed along the waterfront. Then there was an almighty roar, and the camera swung to catch a black funnel racing down the loch. Hamish watched, fascinated, as the mobile unit was lifted up like a toy and thrown into the loch. Then he recognised Alistair Taggart running across the road.
The camera work became more expert as the Strathbane cameraman took over. Jimmy and Hamish watched as Blair was rescued. Then the scene switched to the pub, and there was Alistair Taggart. “His obsession for his writing must have taken over from his obsession with the booze,” commented Hamish. Alistair’s normally drink- swollen face was lean and craggy. Alistair made his statement about being a writer and then shrugged off praise from Jessma on his bravery. Then the camera swung to show a shot of a wet and miserable Blair wrapped in blankets.
Jimmy switched off the video. “It’s a pity the auld bastard didn’t drown. Let’s go.”
¦
Down in Edinburgh, literary agent Blythe Summer was giving last–minute instructions to his secretary. “You hold the fort while I’m away. If I can sign up this Gaelic writer, I think we might make a killing.”
His secretary, Maggie Gillespie, looked doubtful. “Who on earth can read Gaelic today?”
“Oh, it’s become a sort of cult. There are classes all over the place now. There’s a hotel up there. Book me in.”
¦
Hamish had been at Strathbane Television before during a murder investigation. As he and Jimmy walked through the doors, he felt as he had felt before: that they were entering some sort of closed world. He knew the executive staff had all been changed since the last takeover.
At the desk they asked to speak to Harry Tarrant, the drama executive, and were told to take a seat and
