murdered?”
“Yes,” said Hamish. “It all ties in with the murder of Effie Garrard.”
“The artist? But that was suicide.”
“I think not, sir.” Hamish explained about the visitors to Effie’s cottage and about the bottle of wine and the note.
“I never saw any report about that note or bottle of wine.”
“Her sister, Caro, who is up here, told the police in Strathbane, but they said Effie was mad and had probably made the whole thing up.”
Daviot scowled. “I’ll see about this when I get back to headquarters. So what ties Effie to this American?”
“He took her out a couple of times. He had ambitions to be a writer, and he noted down everything everyone had said in a notebook. I asked to see what she had said, and Mr. Addenfest replied that he knew the police thought it was suicide but he had proof that it was murder and would only show the contents to my superiors.”
“And why didn’t you report this?”
“Because I was told the case was closed and to leave it alone.”
“And there’s no sign of the notebook?”
“No, not on the body or in his room.”
Daviot rapped his fingers on the table, an irritating sound. Then he said, “We have a new detective constable, Robin Mackenzie.”
“What’s he like?”
“
“When does this detective arrive?”
“I asked her to report to you first thing tomorrow morning. We must all work night and day on this. No time off for anyone.” He glanced at his watch. “I’d better go. I have a late-night party to attend at the Freemasons. Then tomorrow morning, I have to get my new suit from the tailor. I’ll be over in the afternoon to see how you’re getting on.”
“I do not want to be obstructive, sir, but would not this Detective Mackenzie be better working with Anderson? I work better alone.”
“You what? This isn’t the Wild West with a lone sheriff. Do as you’re told and give Mackenzie all the help she needs.”
After Daviot left, Hamish felt quite low. The case was difficult enough without being saddled with some pushy woman detective. He assumed first thing in the morning meant around nine o’clock. He set the alarm for eight and went to bed, feeling mildly hungry because he’d only eaten the first course before Daviot had taken him away, but felt too tired to cook anything.
¦
Hamish was awakened at six in the morning by a banging on the front door. He struggled out of bed, went to the door, and shouted, “Come round to the kitchen.”
He put on a dressing gown and went and opened the kitchen door.
“I’m Robin Mackenzie,” said his visitor.
“Come ben. What time d’ye call this?”
“I was instructed to report early.”
Robin Mackenzie was a fairly small woman with dark brown hair worn in a French pleat. She had small dark brown eyes, a long straight nose, and a wide mouth. She was wearing a white blouse, suede jacket, and tweed skirt. Her black patent leather shoes had low heels.
“You are not what I expected,” she said, looking up at the tall, unshaven figure of Hamish with his flaming red hair tousled from sleep.
“What did you expect?” asked Hamish.
“Someone fully dressed and in uniform, for a start.”
“I’ll make you some coffee and get dressed.”
The dog and the cat wandered in. She looked at them but made no comment, and thank goodness for that, thought Hamish.
When the coffee was ready, he served her a mug of it and took himself off to the bathroom to shower and shave.
Robin looked around the kitchen. She had grown up in South Uist in the Outer Hebrides and had left as soon as she could to fulfil her ambition of becoming a detective. She had heard reports of Hamish’s brilliance and how he always managed to avoid promotion, and she had wondered why. Being stuck in a highland police station out in the wilds, she thought, would be as bad as being back in South Uist.
She thought Hamish was probably some eccentric and the stories about him had been wild exaggerations. Hadn’t Blair often told her that Macbeth was some highland idiot who just occasionally got lucky?
Hamish came back, dressed in his uniform, and said, “Just a minute. I’ve got to let my hens out.”
Robin suppressed an exclamation of irritation.
When he returned, Hamish then fussed about filling up the animals’ water bowls. When he finished, Robin said impatiently, “Can we get started?”
“I’ve got to walk my beasts. Come with me, and we can talk as we go along.”
I should have brought a camera, thought Robin. No one would ever believe this.
As they strolled along the waterfront, Hamish told her everything he had found out.
After he had finished, he said, “I thought we might go up and see the sister, Caro Garrard. You question her, and I’ll see if there is any variation in her statement. Then we’ll try some of the others. It’s ower early. We’ll need to wait a bit until folks wake up.”
Nessie and Jessie Currie peered through their net curtains. “He’s got a lassie with him,” said Nessie. “Oh, my, she must have spent the night. She should be warned.”
“Warned,” echoed Jessie.
Robin noticed that two small women were approaching them. Hairnets covered their tightly permed hair, and they were wearing identical dressing gowns over flannel men’s pyjamas. On their feet, each wore a pair of Snoopy slippers. The morning sun glinted off their glasses.
Hamish saw them and said hurriedly, “Let’s get back to the police station.”
“Not so fast!” shouted Nessie.
“So fast,” echoed her sister.
Hamish groaned and stopped. “Young woman,” said Nessie, “they may have loose morals in the cities, but in Lochdubh, we are decent, God-fearing people.”
“I am Detective Robin Mackenzie,” said Robin, her fluting South Uist accent cutting through Jessies usual echo. “I arrived at the police station at six o’clock this morning to begin work. Now, what can I do for you?”
“Just came out to say welcome,” mumbled Nessie, and the twins bolted back towards their cottage.
“If the rest of the inhabitants are as deranged as that pair, I’m not surprised there have been two murders up here,” said Robin.
“They’re very nice women,” said Hamish defensively. He hated any of the inhabitants being criticised by outsiders.
They walked back to the police station. “I’ll fix us an omelette for breakfast,” said Hamish.
In the kitchen, Robin noticed that the cat and dog stared at each other for a long moment and then slouched out. “Where are they going?” she asked.
“Who?”
“Your cat and dog.”
“I don’t know,” said Hamish crossly, lifting the lid of the stove and dropping in slices of brown peat. He knew exactly where they had gone. They had gone back to his bed to continue sleeping, but he did not want to tell her that.
“I’m chust going out to get some eggs,” he said.
