“I’d rather stop somewhere on the road. Thanks for the story, thanks for getting me my job back, and I hope you and Priscilla Halburton-Smythe will be truly miserable.”
She stalked out.
Hamish stayed where he was, feeling guilty. But as he saw her car drive past, a surge of elation went through him. Priscilla was coming home to the Highlands.
¦
The next day, Hamish drove over to the caravan park at Cnothan. Jock and Dora were sitting on deck chairs outside their caravan.
“Betty’s dead,” said Hamish, standing over them.
“How? What happened?” asked Jock.
“She got your letter and hanged herself in her cell. You are a piece of scum. If you hadn’t led her on, she might never have murdered those two folk.”
“Och, get off your high horse. Don’t tell me you’ve never led some woman on.”
A picture of Elspeth rose before Hamish’s eyes. He shook his head to get rid of it.
“Don’t cross my path again,” he said. “In fact, get off my beat, or I’ll make your lives a misery.”
Hamish stalked off. Then he had a sudden thought. He got into the Land Rover and telephoned Jimmy. “Betty didn’t say anything about sewing the cocaine into the curtains when I was there.”
“We interviewed her later when she stopped screaming. We had to fill in the blanks. Yes, she confessed to that and to defacing Priscillas portrait.”
“Pity,” said Hamish. “I’d ha’ loved to arrest one of that pair.”
¦
As Hamish drove back towards Lochdubh, he suddenly thought of Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He felt sure no one had gone to visit him. He wrestled with his conscience and then decided a ten-minute call would be all right.
He bought a bottle of whisky and drove to the housing estate in Strathbane where Blair lived.
It was a semi-detached house with a weedy garden in front. He rang the doorbell and waited, hearing shuffling from inside.
Blair opened the door and blinked up at Hamish. He was leaning on a pair of crutches.
“What is it?” he demanded.
“I brought you a present and came to see how you were,” said Hamish.
Blair snatched the bottle from him, snarled, “I know you, you came to gloat. Bastard!” and slammed the door in Hamish’s face.
Hamish walked away, shaking his head and giving his conscience a talking-to. “Now, wasn’t that a waste of time?” he raged. A woman passing by gave him a nervous look.
He drove into the centre of Strathbane and parked the Land Rover. He would take a look around the shops and treat himself to lunch.
Hamish was not used to having money to spend on himself, and he felt quite profligate as he bought himself a new pair of shoes, his old ones having fallen apart a long time ago. The odd times he had worn a suit, he had worn his regulation boots with it.
He was just leaving the shoe shop when he saw Robin Mackenzie on the other side of the street. Hamish hailed her. “I thought you were in Inverness.”
“I came up to get the last of my stuff. I was just taking a last look round,” said Robin.
“What about lunch?”
“All right. There’s quite a good Chinese here.”
Inside the restaurant, Hamish asked her, “How do you think you’ll get on in Inverness?”
“It’s not too bad. Better than Strathbane. I know I did the wrong thing, Hamish, but so did Daviot, and the way he got on his moral high horse makes me sick.”
“Aye, but the man’s at that dangerous middle age, and when a young woman like you throws herself at him, he’s easy prey.”
“Never mind. Tell me all about the case.”
Hamish talked as they ate. When he finished, Robin asked, “So what happened to Effie’s mobile phone?”
“I don’t know. You should still have been on the case. Went right out of my head.”
“All you need to do is get the number and ring it. The battery might still be working.”
“I may do. But what’s the point? Betty will never go to trial now.”
“Why?”
“She hanged herself with her tights in her cell.”
“Saves a trial.”
They finished their meal. Robin said, “If you’re ever down in Inverness, give me a call.” She took a card out of her handbag. “That’s my new number.”
“Thanks. I will.”
¦
Hamish stopped off at the Tommel Castle Hotel on the road back.
“I’m right sorry, Hamish,” said Mr. Johnson. “How was I to guess that a woman like Betty Barnard was a murderess?”
“It’s over now. How’s business?”
“Not very good. Cancellations coming in every day.”
“Let me think.”
Hamish slumped down in an armchair on the other side of the managers desk and closed his eyes. He was silent so long that Mr. Johnson finally asked, “Have you fallen asleep, Hamish?”
Hamish opened his eyes. “This is a fake castle, right? Built in Victorian times, but it looks spooky. You need a ghost. People love ghosts.”
“Now, how do we get a ghost?”
“We need someone who was killed here in the nineteenth century or someone who committed suicide. You tell the staff the plan. They won’t want to be laid off because of lack of customers, so they’ll play along. I’ll see Matthew Campbell when you’re ready and start the ball rolling. Then what about murder weekends?”
“Hamish, what are you talking about?”
“Some hotels have murder weekends. You get a sort of Agatha Christie script. Everyone dresses up in twenties or thirties clothes and takes a part. They’ve all got to guess who the murderer is.”
“Could be an idea.”
“Get on the Internet and find out where they do it and what they charge.”
“I don’t know if Colonel Halburton-Smythe will agree to the idea.”
“He may not, but Priscilla will. She’s coming back to live here.” Hamish’s hazel eyes glowed.
And you’ll get hurt all over again, thought the manager. Aloud, he said, “That’s good. She’s a grand worker. What are you going to do now? Take a holiday?”
Hamish opened his mouth to say he was going to New York and closed it again. Priscilla was coming home, and he wanted to be in Lochdubh when she arrived. But that’s not for a month, said a voice in his head. Plenty of time to go to New York.
I can’t leave my animals, he thought, relieved to find a genuine excuse. No one in the village would look after Sonsie.
“Hamish, your lips are moving, but no sound is coming out.”
Hamish blushed. “Sorry, I was thinking. I’ll take some time off just to potter around and relax.”
¦
Back at the police station, there was an urgent message from the minister, Mr. Wellington, asking Hamish to call at the manse.
He went round to the kitchen door at the back, knowing the front door was hardly ever used.
Mr. Wellington let him in. “I have a problem of conscience,” began the minister.
“I’m surprised you can’t cope with it yourself.”
“Sit down.”
Hamish sat at the kitchen table. The manse kitchen was a large gloomy room dating from the days when
