kitchen.
Hamish made tea and produced a tin of biscuits. Pat had just come on the night shift and was as bright as a button. She told him all about her family in Dornoch, about her time at the police academy, while Hamish stifled his yawns and sent prayers up to the old Celtic gods to make her go.
At last, she rose to leave. “Maybe we could have dinner together one evening,” she said.
“Aye, maybe,” said Hamish, resisting an urge to put his hand in the small of her back and shove her out the door.
She turned out to be one of those irritating people who get up to leave and then stand in the doorway chattering away.
She finally left. He sighed with relief. He walked like a zombie into his bedroom, fell facedown on the bed, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep.
¦
Hamish was awakened at ten the next morning by a loud hammering at the front door.
I’m not going to answer that, he thought. Probably the press. The knocking grew louder, and a voice shouted, “Scotland Yard. Open up.”
Groaning, Hamish went to the front door and shouted through the letter box, “Come round to the kitchen door. This one’s jammed with the damp.”
He went to the kitchen door and opened it, suddenly sharply aware of his unshaven face and scruffy clothes as two smartly dressed men wearing expensive parkas over their suits came round the corner.
“Police Constable Hamish Macbeth?”
“That’s me.”
“I am Detective Chief Inspector Burrows from Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Wilkins.”
“Come ben,” said Hamish. “I’m just up. It was a long night. I’ll make up the stove.”
Burrows watched with some amusement as Hamish raked out the stove, put paper and kindling in it, and struck a match. He had sensed in talking to Daviot and Blair that the detective abilities of Hamish Macbeth were being kept out of the picture, and he had decided to see the man for himself. He saw a tall, sleepy highlander with flaming red hair and almost guileless hazel eyes.
“Please sit down,” said Hamish, adding slabs of peat to the blaze. “Tea?”
“We’ve brought our own supplies,” said Burrows, lifting a carrier back onto the table. “We’ve a couple of thermoses of coffee and some croissants. And a bottle of whisky.”
“That was really thoughtful of ye,” said Hamish. “Where did you get croissants in Strathbane?”
“I gather it’s a new bakery.”
“Won’t last,” said Hamish. “They prefer things like deep-fried Mars bars.”
They all sat round the table. Burrows was a clean-cut man with neat features, while his sergeant was large with a great round head.
“What we would like,” said Burrows, “is to hear your version of events, starting with the murder cases. My God! What the hell’s that? A lynx?”
“That’s my cat,” said Hamish patiently. “Please may I have some coffee, and no, I don’t want any whisky in it.”
He began at the beginning again. Although he tried hard to make it look as if he had been nothing more than a bumbling local policeman who had hit upon clues by sheer accident, Burrows was not deceived.
After Hamish had finished, Burrows said, “I think you should be due for a promotion.”
He was startled by the look of alarm on Hamish’s face. “Who iss talking about promotion?” asked Hamish nervously.
“None of them at Strathbane. But I was going to put in a recommendation.”
“Please don’t do that, sir.”
Wilkins spoke for the first time. “He likes it here, sir. I like it here. I’ve been looking out the window at the sheep. I like looking at sheep.”
“Dear me. A country boy at heart? Is he right, Macbeth?”
“Aye. You see, you need a village policeman in this part o’ the world. If I got a promotion, they would shut down this police station. The folks from Strathbane would never think of checking on the old folks in the outlying crofts. They talk about community policing, but there’s damn little of it I can see.”
Said Burrows, “You mean you have no ambition whatsoever?”
“There iss the one thing.”
“And that is?”
“I need a new Land Rover. If you could put a word in for me about that.”
“I’ll do my best. We’d better get going. It might snow again.”
“A thaw is coming.”
“How do you know? Seen the weather forecast, have you?”
“No, I can always feel it.”
¦
The two Scotland Yard officers drove south to Strathbane. “Look, sir, the snow is melting,” said Wilkins.
“Strange man that Macbeth,” said Burrows. “He really needs a good strong push up the ladder. He shouldn’t be rotting in a country village.”
“He’s not rotting, sir,” said Wilkins vehemently. “He’s happy. Why is it that no one can stand a happy, contented, unambitious man?”
Burrows gave a reluctant laugh. “I’ve never met one before. I want to change him into one of us. Calm down. I’ll leave him alone.”
? Death of a Maid ?
11
—Robert Burns
Spring came reluctantly to the Highlands, crawling in on sleety gusts of wind. Then one day, the sun shone down from a cloudless sky. The air of Lochdubh was filled with the sound of vacuum cleaners and flapping dusters as the inhabitants got down to the annual spring cleaning.
Hamish Macbeth, now proud possessor of a brand-new Land Rover, felt it was time that he, too, did some spring cleaning.
As he worked away, his mind seemed to be waking up again after the long, cold winter.
He found himself wondering how the one-time suspects in the murder cases were getting on now that they no longer had any fear of the police prying into their private lives.
Thanks to the new cat flap, Sonsie and Lugs could get in and out of the house whenever they wanted. He left his chores and drove off towards Braikie, marvelling at the glory of the day.
Even the sea along by the shore road was quiet, with only little glassy waves curling on the beach.
His thoughts turned reluctantly to Elspeth. Was she married? Was she happy? Would he ever see her again?
¦
At that moment, Elspeth was arriving at the church in Glasgow in a carriage drawn by two white horses donated by her Gypsy relatives. Beside her sat her uncle Mark, uncomfortable in his wedding finery. The best man, Luke’s fellow reporter James Biddell, came up to the carriage. “Drive around again,” he said. “Luke hasn’t arrived.”
“Where is he?” demanded Elspeth.
“We finished up the stag party at four this morning. He said he was going back to his digs. I called round, but he wasn’t there.”
“I’ll murder the bastard,” grated Uncle Mark. “Drive on.”
If only I had insisted on a closed limo, thought Elspeth. Crowds were gathering to see the bride. By the time
