“Can you be giving me a bed for the night?”
“I’ve got one cell with a bed in it. You can use that and then return to Cnothan in the morning.”
“I’ve had enough of this place. I’ve never met such a bunch o’ sour-faced bastards in my life.”
“Let’s go.”
¦
In the police station at Lochdubh, Hamish typed while the salesman – who gave his name as Hugh Ryan – talked.
“What did the man arguing with John Heppel look like?”
“He was thickset with grey curly hair and a sort of beat-up face.”
“And what was he wearing?”
“A donkey jacket and jeans.”
“And the car?”
“A dirty white one with rust on the driver’s side. I could see that from the lights shining out of the house.”
Hamish typed busily and then sent his report over to Strathbane. He grinned as he pressed the key to send it on its way, feeling as if he were launching an Exocet in the direction of Detective Chief Inspector Blair.
¦
Blair was furious because Alistair Taggart had asked for a lawyer as soon as he arrived at police headquarters and there was the usual long wait until one could be found.
Jimmy Anderson was handed Hamish’s report by one of the policewomen. He read it and began to laugh.
“What’s so funny, Anderson?” demanded a voice behind him.
Jimmy twisted round and saw Superintendent Daviot standing behind him.
Jimmy stood up. “I have just received this report from Hamish Macbeth, sir. It exonerates Alistair Taggart.”
“And you think that’s funny? Give me the report.”
Daviot read it quickly and then snapped, “Get Mr. Blair out of that interview room and give him this.”
“Yes, sir.”
Blair was just getting into his bullying stride, ignoring the frequent interruptions of the lawyer, when Jimmy opened the door.
“A word with you, sir.”
Blair suspended the tape recorder and marched out. “This had better be important.”
Jimmy handed him Hamish’s report.
Blair read it once and then read it again, his face growing darker with fury.
“Mr. Daviot has read it,” said Jimmy.
“Get over there and check out this salesman,” shouted Blair. “I don’t trust Macbeth.”
“I’d better take Mr. Taggart with me,” said Jimmy. “You’ll have to release him now.”
How Blair longed to say he was keeping Taggart locked up. But Daviot had seen the report, and Taggart had a lawyer who might sue him for wrongful arrest if he kept him any longer.
¦
“What’s the time?” asked Alistair outside police headquarters.
“It’s eight o’clock,” said Jimmy.
“Aye, well, just you drop me off at Strathbane Television.”
“Why?”
“Mind yer own business.”
¦
In the living room of the Lochdubh police station, salesman Hugh Ryan was slumped on the sofa, fast asleep.
Hamish switched on the television to watch the nine o’clock news. The newscaster read out the international news and then said in a portentous voice, “Tonight we have a special interview with Mr. Alistair Taggart, who has just been released from police custody after being falsely accused of the murder of John Heppel. Jessma Gardener has this exclusive report.”
First there was a rehash of the murder, including film of the violent villagers of Lochdubh shouting at John. Then the camera moved to the studio, where Jessma was facing Alistair.
“They’ve cleaned him up!” exclaimed Hamish.
Alistair’s shaggy locks had been trimmed, and the costume department had kitted him out in a tweed jacket, corduroy trousers, and a roll-necked sweater.
“Now, Mr. Taggart,” began Jessma, “you have had quite a gruelling ordeal. Tell us what happened.”
Alistair had a pleasant voice with a highland lilt. Hamish waited for him to rant and rave, but Alistair said in a calm voice, “I was working on my manuscript when Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived at my cottage. He accused me of murder. Police searched the house and said they had found incriminating evidence.”
“And what was that evidence?”
“A bag of mothballs.”
“And that was all? I mean, a lot of houses have bags of mothballs.”
“Blair said it was because I had been having a row with John Heppel on the night he died.”
“And had you?”
“Yes, I went to get my money back for that writing class. I told him he was a fraud. I had a terrible time at the hands of the police. I am a writer, and we writers are sensitive.”
“Dear God,” muttered Hamish.
Someone handed Jessma a slip of paper. She read it and smiled. “We have just learned that the reason for your release is because your local constable, Hamish Macbeth, diligently discovered evidence to clear you, which his superior officers had overlooked.”
“Hamish Macbeth is a very clever man,” said Alistair. “It was because of him that I started writing. He inspired me.”
¦
Jimmy Anderson had stopped in a pub on the outskirts of Strathbane before going on to Lochdubh. He tucked his mobile phone away and raised his glass to the television set at the end of the bar that was broadcasting the news. “Credit where credit’s due,” he said. “And won’t Blair just hate it!”
¦
“Where did Strathbane Television get that bit about me?” demanded Hamish when Jimmy strolled into the police station.
“A little bird must have told them.”
Hamish eyed him cynically. “I suppose the little bird wants a dram.”
“Aye, that would be grand. I’ve been sent to interrogate your witness all over again. But why bother?”
¦
Literary agent Blythe Summer was up in his room at the Tommel Castle Hotel packing his suitcase. He had heard of Alistair’s arrest and considered his journey wasted. A muted television set was flickering in the corner of the room, and as he folded shirts, he thought he heard the name Taggart. He turned up the sound and listened with rapt attention. Then he picked up the phone and dialled reception. “I’ll be staying for a bit, after all,” he said.
¦
The next morning Alistair read over and over again the note his wife had left him. It simply said, “I’ve taken Dermott to my sister’s. Don’t try to reach me. I don’t want to see you again. Maisie.”
All his dreams of becoming a great writer fled. While he had been on television, he had imagined Maisie and his son watching him proudly. The fact that his drunken behaviour might have driven her away did not cross his mind. All he felt was black self-pity. He decided to go to Patel’s and buy a bottle of whisky.
He put on the tweed jacket which he had ‘forgotten’ to return to the television costume department, opened his front door, and found himself facing a round, dapper man carrying a briefcase.
“What?” demanded Alistair.
“I am Blythe Summer, literary agent, and I am interested in taking you on as a client. May I come in?”
