them are from eastern Europe. Mind you, they’re good. But those names! All consonants.”
“Who does the Gillespie woman work for these days?”
“Let me see, there’s old Professor Sander at Braikie. Also in Braikie, Mrs. Fleming and Mrs. Styles, then Mrs. Wellington here, and a Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson at Styre.”
Styre was a village to the south of Lochdubh. “I havenae been in Styre in ages,” said Hamish.
“Why not? It’s on your beat.”
“I’m thinking the whole of damned Sutherland is on my beat these days. Besides, there’s never any crime in Styre.”
“By the way,” said the manager, looking slyly at Hamish, “we’ve a booking for Miss Grant.”
Hamish pretended indifference, although he could feel his tranquillity seeping away. “Herself must be earning a fair whack to be staying here,” he said.
The Tommel Castle Hotel had once been the private residence of Colonel Halburton-Smythe, but faced with bankruptcy, the colonel had turned his home into a hotel because of Hamish’s suggestion, although he still claimed the bright idea had been all his own. The hotel was one of those pseudo-Gothic castles built in the nineteenth century when Queen Victoria had made living in Scotland fashionable.
“Not bothered about her coming up?” asked Mr. Johnson.
“Not a bit,” lied Hamish. “I’ll be off. Thanks for the sandwiches.”
¦
He hung around the village until he saw Mrs. Gillespie leaving. She drove off in her old battered Ford. Filthy smoke was exiting from the exhaust. Hamish stepped out onto the road and held up his hand.
She screeched to a halt and rolled down the window.
“Whit?”
“Your exhaust is filthy. Get to a garage immediately and get it fixed, or I’ll have to book you.”
By way of reply, she let in the clutch and stamped on the accelerator. Hamish jumped back as she roared off.
Back inside the police station, he looked gloomily around. The kitchen floor was gleaming with water which should have been mopped up. The air stank of disinfectant. Then he looked at the kitchen table. The letter from Elspeth, which he had crumpled up and left there, had gone.
He searched the rubbish bin, but it had been already emptied. He had heard stories that Mrs. Gillespie was a snoop.
He decided to drive over to Braikie, where she lived, on the following day and confront her. He guessed she would protest that it was a crumpled piece of paper and she had just been clearing up, but he thought that he and others had been cowardly long enough.
Then Hamish swore under his breath. He had forgotten to lock the police station office. He went in. The cables had been detached from the computer. He replugged it and then looked around the office, glad that he had at least locked the filing cabinet.
He went back to the kitchen, got out his own mop, and cleaned up the water from the kitchen floor. The work made him relax and count his blessings. With police stations closing down all over the place, he had still managed to survive.
¦
But down in a bar in Strathbane, Detective Chief Inspector Blair was wondering again how he could winkle Hamish Macbeth out of that police station of his and get him moved to the anonymity of Strathbane, where he would just be another copper among many. As he sipped his first double Scotch of the day, Blair dreamed of getting Hamish put on traffic duty.
“I’ll have a vodka and tonic,” said a hearty voice beside him. A man had just come up to the bar. Blair squinted sideways and looked at him. He was balding on the front, with the remainder of his grey hair tied back in a ponytail. He had a thin face, black-rimmed glasses, and a small beard. He was dressed in a blue donkey jacket and jeans, but he was wearing a collar and tie.
“Are you from the television station?” asked Blair.
“Aye. Who are you?”
Blair held out a fat mottled hand. “Detective Chief Inspector Blair.”
“Pleased to meet you. I’m Phil McTavish, head of documentaries.”
Blair thought quickly, the whisky-fuelled cogs of his brain spinning at a great rate. In the past, Hamish Macbeth had always sidestepped promotion, knowing that promotion would mean a transfer to Strathbane. But what if there were to be a flattering documentary about Hamish? The top brass would feel they really had to do something, and he could swear they had a party every time another village police station was closed down, sending more money into their coffers.
“It’s funny meeting you like this,” said Blair, giving Phil his best oily smile. “I’ve got a great idea for a documentary.”
¦
The following day, Hamish had to postpone his trip to Braikie. He had been summoned by his boss, Superintendent Peter Daviot, to police headquarters for an interview.
The day suited his mood. The brief spell of good weather had changed to a damp drizzle. Wraiths of mist crawled down the flanks of the mountains.
Strathbane had once been a busy fishing port, but new European fishing quotas had destroyed business. Then under a scheme to regenerate the Highlands, new businesses were set up, but drugs had arrived before them and the town became a depressed area of rotting factories, vandalised high-rises, and dangerous, violent youths.
Hamish’s spirits were low as he parked in front of police headquarters and made his way up to Daviot’s office, where the secretary, Helen, who loathed him, gave him a wintry smile and told him to go in.
Daviot was not alone. There were two other people there: a middle-aged man with a ponytail and a small eager-looking girl.
“Ah, Hamish,” said Daviot. “Let me introduce you. This is Mr. Peter McTavish, head of Strathbane Television’s documentary programmes.”
Hamish shook hands with him and then looked enquiringly at the girl. “And here is one of his researchers, Shona Eraser.” Shona, although white, had her hair in dreadlocks. Her small face was dominated by a pair of very large brown eyes. She was dressed in a denim jacket over a faded black T·shirt, jeans ripped at the knee, and a pair of large, clumpy boots.
“Detective Chief Inspector Blair has told Mr. McTavish that your colourful character and exploits would make a very good documentary. Miss Eraser here will go around with you initially to take notes and report back to Mr. McTavish.”
Daviot beamed all around, his white hair carefully barbered and his suit a miracle of good tailoring.
Shona looked curiously at the tall policeman. He was standing very still, his cap under his arm. He seemed to have gone into a trance.
What Hamish was thinking was: I bet that bastard hopes to make me famous so they’ll feel obliged to give me a promotion and get me out of Lochdubh. He knew it would be useless to protest.
Instead, he gave himself a little shake, smiled, and said, “Perhaps it might be a good idea if I took Mr. McTavish and Miss Fraser to the pub to discuss this informally.”
“Good idea,” said Daviot. “Put any hospitality on your expenses.”
¦
Once they were settled over their drinks in the pub, Hamish said solemnly, “You’ve got the wrong man.”
“How’s that?” asked Phil.
“You see, Blair is a verra modest man. Let me tell you about him.” Hamish outlined several famous murder cases which he himself had solved but had let Blair take the credit for. He ended up by saying, “I’m just a local bobby. There’s no colour for you there. But Blair! Man, he’ll take you to the worst parts of Strathbane. You’ll be witnesses to drug raids and violence.”
Their eyes gleamed with the excitement of the naive who have never really been exposed to anything nasty.
¦
When Blair was told later that he was to be the subject of the documentary, rage warred with vanity in his
