Hamish manufactured a laugh. “Now, that really is daft. Daviot, of all people.”
“That’s what I said. So are you going to take your holiday now?”
“Starting as soon as possible. Like now.”
“So where are you going?”
“Och, I’m chust staying here,” said Hamish awkwardly.
“You know, every time I drive into peasantville, I look to see what the hell it is that keeps you here, but I’m blessed if I can.”
“Never mind. Make that your last whisky this evening. One of these days you’re going to run off the road.”
“All right, mother.” Jimmy swallowed his whisky. “Here’s hoping we never have to cope with another murder again.”
¦
Hamish was in Patel’s shop the next morning when Angela came up to him. “Have you seen the
“No, why?”
“Jock’s been shot. Elspeth’s written the story.”
Hamish bought a copy of the newspaper and went outside and sat on the waterfront wall.
Jock had been shot dead in his flat. Neighbours heard the shot. They found his flat door open and Jock lying dead on the floor. Police said that Jock Fleming owed considerable sums of money to loan sharks to pay for his gambling debts, and they felt that was the reason he was killed. Then there was an inside feature, also by Elspeth, about Jock’s connection to the murders in Lochdubh. The article ended by saying that it was reported that prices of his paintings had doubled.
Hamish wondered for a moment whether Dora had decided she’d had enough of Jock’s philandering but then came to the conclusion that probably one of his loan sharks had wiped him out.
He pottered about for the rest of the day, feeling the peace of Lochdubh beginning to seep into his bones. In early evening, just as the sun was setting, he decided to go for a walk along the beach.
The air was clear and slightly cool. Thin wisps of cloud trailed the sky above, heralding a change in the good weather.
And then as he looked along the beach, he saw a heron, standing on the flat rock where Betty had stood, looking down into the water.
As he approached, it slowly turned its head and looked at him.
He experienced a sudden superstitious shiver of fear. He ran towards it, waving his arms and shouting, “Go away. Shoo!”
The bird lazily opened its great wings and sailed off down the loch in the direction of the Atlantic.
Hamish Macbeth watched it until it was out of sight.
¦
In Brighton, businessman George Bentinck had just returned from working in South Africa. He was expected to attend a Rotary Club dinner, and he wanted a female companion to take along. His wife was dead, and he didn’t want to sit at the table where all the other men would be flanked by their wives or companions.
He phoned various lady friends, but all said they were too busy. He looked through his address book again. Then he saw the name Effie Garrard. He remembered her as a plain little woman he had met at a gallery opening. She had insisted on him writing down her mobile phone number. He had been too busy in South Africa to read any newspapers and was blissfully unaware of murder in the north of Scotland.
He dialled.
Deep in the heather, protected from the elements, down below Geordie’s Cleft, Effie’s phone, which she had charged up on the night she met her death, began to ring.
Like a faint cry for help, it shrilled tinnily out into the soft clear highland light.
But there was no one to hear it.
Not even the ghost of a dreamer.
