activities was power rather than money. How she must have enjoyed getting something as simple as free cream cakes!
His thoughts moved to Elspeth. Would she really marry that reporter? Did it matter? He thought ruefully that he had had ample time in the past to propose marriage to her himself. Was he playing dog in the manger?
He switched on his answering machine. He did not expect any messages from Blair. Puffed up with the idea of a documentary on him, Blair would do anything he knew to keep him in the background. There was a brief one from Jimmy. “We don’t seem to be getting anywhere with this, Hamish. Any suggestions? Found anything out?”
Then there was one from Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. “I’ve been reading about the murder, Hamish. I haven’t heard from you in ages. How are you getting on? Give me a ring if you’ve got the time.”
No, thought Hamish. I’m not going down that road again. I was all excited when I thought she was coming back to live here, but she only stayed for a short time and I barely saw her. He fought down that old treacherous feeling of longing. He realised the next message was from Shona Fraser.
“We’re not going to go on with the documentary on Detective Chief Inspector Blair. I’ve been doing research on you, and I guess you acted stupid to get out of the television thing. But I’ve found out something interesting. I’ll call at the police station at nine this evening and let you have it.”
Oh, dear, thought Hamish. A Blair with fame snatched from him would be in a filthy mood and would soon be on the phone to vent some of his spleen on one local constable.
Hamish typed out a report of everything he had learned that day including his views that Mrs. Gillespie had only wanted power not money and might have contrived to win prizes at bingo by blackmailing Miss Greedy. He explained that it would account for the lack of any large sums being drawn out of the suspects’ bank accounts. Then he sent it on to Jimmy.
He glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty. He took the dog and cat out for a walk and then returned to the station and took a venison stew out of the freezer and heated it up on the stove. Then he divided it equally among the three of them.
He went through to his living room and lit the fire. He switched on the television set and then surfed the channels until he found a fictional program on forensic investigation and settled down to watch. One minute he was marvelling how these forensic researchers could visit the scenes of crimes without any protective clothing whatsoever, shaking long hair and DNA all over the place and trudging around dead bodies in uncovered shoes, when he fell asleep.
He woke abruptly and looked at his watch. Ten o’clock. He wondered if Shona had called and he hadn’t heard her. But he knew that in the past no matter how heavily he slept, a knock at the door always awoke him.
He stretched and yawned. Maybe she had changed her mind.
¦
Archie Maclean, the fisherman, swallowed the last of a cup of extremely strong tea and went up on deck. He was wearing a tracksuit under his oilskin. He kept clothes on board, for he knew his bullying wife expected him to go to sea in his suit and collar and tie. “You’re the skipper,” she always said, “and should look the part.”
His boat, the
They were nearly at the entrance to the loch when Archie, who was about to go up to the wheelhouse and take over, spotted a rowing boat cresting a wave. Why it had not been overturned was a miracle. He nipped up to the wheelhouse and said to his mate, Harry, “There’s a wee rowboat in the water. Pull her ower and let’s have a look.”
Harry reduced the speed. Archie unhitched a pair of binoculars and then let out a hiss of alarm. “There iss some cheil lying in the boat. Pull alongside.”
He ran back to the rail and called to the other three men who made up his small crew. “Get a grappling iron and pull her in.”
It was a difficult job with the waves heaving the
A grappling iron was attached to the rowing boat. Archie shone a powerful torch down into it. A young girl lay sprawled in the bottom facedown.
“Bang goes a night’s fishing,” said Archie. “There’s blood on the back o’ her head. I’ll phone Macbeth.”
¦
Hamish Macbeth stood on the harbour, waiting for the fishing boat to come in. In the distance, he could hear police sirens. He was wearing the blue forensic suit all police officers were now expected to wear when inspecting a crime. He felt guilty about it. He had worn it when he had been cleaning out the hen run on a wet day. It had subsequently fallen off a hook on the back of the kitchen door, and Sonsie had slept on it.
He thought miserably of forensic programmes he had watched on television. “Ah, I have one hair here!” some forensic scientist would say triumphantly. God only knew what they would find if they ever took away his protective clothing for examination.
The sirens sounded nearer. Lights were going on in the cottages along the waterfront.
¦
Elspeth woke up suddenly in her room at the hotel. She heard the wail of the sirens as police cars sped past and down the hill to Lochdubh. She went out of her room and hammered on the door of Luke’s room.
He opened it and stood looking Wearily down at her. His eyes were bloodshot, and he smelled strongly of booze.
“I’ve heard lots of police cars going past,” said Elspeth. “Come on. Get dressed!”
Luke groaned. After an unsuccessful evening trying to get Elspeth into his bed, he had resorted to comfort from a bottle of whisky.
“You go,” he said. “I’ll follow you down.”
“We’ve only got the one car!”
“I’ll wake someone up and take one of the hotel cars.”
Luke retreated into his room and shut the door. Just five minutes more sleep, he thought. He fell facedown on the bed, not waking until the morning.
¦
The fishing boat came nearer. Jimmy shivered. “Did Archie say who it was?” he asked Hamish.
“He chust said a wee lassie. Oh, God, Jimmy, I chust hope it isnae who I think it is.”
“That being?”
“Shona Eraser. She phoned earlier and said she had something to tell me. She said she would come to the police station, but she never arrived.”
A woman police inspector was waiting, flanked by a woman police sergeant.
“Look at them,” said Jimmy. “It’s all this political correctness. The whole Northern Constabulary will soon be filled with damn women.”
“If it iss Shona,” muttered Hamish, “what could she have found out that I couldn’t?”
“Beats me. Amazing if it wasn’t Blair who killed her. He was flaming mad when he was told that the television documentary was cancelled.”
“Where is the auld scunner?”
“Probably nursing a hangover. Here comes trouble!”
Hamish walked forward. “You! Macbeth!” barked Police Inspector Mary Cannon. “Go and knock on doors and see if anyone heard anything.”
Hamish trudged off. The pity of it was, he thought, that the hotel on the harbour had been boarded for years. The pub beside it still closed at eleven o’clock in the evening. There was no cottage looking directly onto the harbour.
The lights were on in Patel’s store. Patel was the epitome of the Indian businessman. He knew that crowds of people even in the middle of the night meant a good sale of sandwiches and hot coffee.
Hamish pushed open the door and went in. Mr. Patel was just carrying a plate of sandwiches through from the kitchen at the back.
“What’s going on, Hamish?”
