—Sir Walter Scott
Hamish parked at the police station, fed his hens, gave his sheep their winter fodder, and cooked up lunch for his dog and cat, all the while wondering about that bicycle.
He remembered that the hotel had some bicycles which they allowed their guests to use. He decided to go there but felt forced to leave his pets behind. The press lurking outside the police station, he was sure, would snap photos of his wild cat and a debate would start whether it was right for a police officer to have such a ‘dangerous animal.’
But instead of driving straight to the hotel, he parked up on the moors above Lochdubh. He needed peace and quiet to think.
How was it that he who had always considered himself to be a shrewd judge of character should have been taken in by Irena? At first, he had been sure her distress was genuine. Add to that her beauty, and so he was taken in. Had she been on the streets of Moscow before finding her protector? He guessed that the life she had led had made her hard and tough. Men were creatures to be used. Maybe she had not intended to use him, and then on reflection she discovered she had hit on a soft target. It would mean more than a passport to her to become a married woman. It would mean respectability. Yes, he decided, she would ruthlessly use every weapon she could find to make sure it happened. She would accept Mrs. Gentle’s offer of money and a reception – first, surely, because she knew something about her, and second because after her treatment, she felt a desire to make the woman pay.
His thoughts turned to the mysterious phone caller. By car, she could have made the journey to the castle in about twenty minutes. By bike, very much longer. So it stood to reason that she had quickly ditched the bike somewhere outside Lochdubh, got into a car, and driven off.
So where would a stranger dump a bike on the road out of the village? She might heave it over the bridge and into the river. She wouldn’t want to use a mobile phone – that could be traced. She maybe wouldn’t want to drive into the village in case someone noticed the make of car and the registration number.
He drove back down to the humpbacked bridge over the River Anstey, got out, and scrambled down beside the bridge to the river.
In spring when the snow melted, the Anstey would become a raging torrent. But now it was peaceful, the golden peaty water chuckling over the rocks. And there, lying in the water, was a bicycle. He could see that the old-fashioned wicker basket on the front, described by the Currie sisters, had come partially loose and was swaying in the stream.
He telephoned Jimmy and told him of the find. Jimmy told him to guard it until the crime operatives and the forensic boys arrived.
“Is this how you go about your detecting, Hamish?” asked a cool voice from above him on the bridge. He looked up. Hair shining in the sunlight, there stood Priscilla.
His heart gave a great leap and then he reminded himself of their romance, failed because of Priscilla’s coldness. How could he still hanker after a woman whose idea of lovemaking was to just lie there, supine, and suffer?
“Don’t come down,” he called. He climbed up to join her. Doomed as their romance had been, there was still this warmth and trust between them. “I’ve just found a bike that’s part of the murder investigation.”
“You’d better get some tape,” said Priscilla. “There’s still a bunch of press outside the station, and they’ll soon be along here trampling over everything.”
Hamish got police tape out of the Land Rover and with Priscilla’s help began to cordon off the area.
When it was finished, Priscilla looked at him with cool blue eyes. “Hamish, what on earth possessed you to get engaged to a tart?”
“She was beautiful, she needed rescuing, and” – added Hamish harshly – “nobody else wanted me and I was tired of being single.”
“
“What?”
“Here they come, cameras waving. And Elspeth is at the fore.”
“Look, duck under the tape and come down to the riverbank,” said Hamish.
“Won’t we be messing up a crime scene?”
“From the state of that bike, it was chucked over. Come on. I’ll tell you all about it.”
Elspeth, penned behind the tape with the rest of the press, called down to Hamish, but he affected not to hear.
He began at the beginning, telling Priscilla everything he knew, including the destroyed passport. He had always told her everything, knowing she was trustworthy and a very good listener.
When he had finished, she said, “How awful it all must have been for you.”
He looked at her with gratitude. No one else had thought of how he must feel.
He heard sirens in the distance. “Are there any odd strangers up at the hotel apart from Harold Jury?”
“I’ll double-check,” said Priscilla. “I don’t think so. Apart from the press, there are a few die-hard fishermen.”
¦
Superintendent Daviot’s head appeared over the parapet. “Come up here, Macbeth, and let the men do their work. Oh, Miss Halburton-Smythe, how nice to see you.”
Priscilla and Hamish climbed up the bank. “I’d better be off,” said Priscilla.
“Can we meet for dinner?” asked Hamish.
“I’ll phone you.”
Elspeth watched them and then saw the way Hamish looked after Priscilla as she got into her car and drove off.
She edged her way back through the press and walked round to where the police Land Rover was parked on the bridge. Elspeth opened the passenger door, got in, and crouched down.
Daviot said to Hamish, “That was good work.”
“I’m going to check at the hotel,” said Hamish. “They’ve got bikes they let their guests use.”
He walked to the Land Rover, seemingly deaf to the cries of the journalists demanding to know the significance of the bicycle.
Hamish switched on the engine and then glanced down to his left and stiffened. “Chust what do you think you are doing, Elspeth?” he demanded.
“I’m a reporter, remember? I want something to report.”
“Tell you what, if you go to the station and take Lugs and Sonsie for a walk and feed them, I’ll give you something to report.”
“Like when?”
“Say five o’clock.”
“You’re on, copper. What did your hooker think of the possibility of sharing a home with your two other wives – Sonsie and Lugs?”
“Get out!”
“I’m going.”
Hamish drove off, feeling highly irritated. He regretted telling Elspeth he would see her later. She had jeered at him in the past over his devotion to his pets.
When he walked into the hotel, he glanced in the bar and then walked through to the lounge not just to see if he could find any odd-looking guests, but also to see if he could meet Priscilla again.
Apart from Harold Jury and his laptop, there were no other guests in the lounge. But the surprise was that Harold appeared to be entertaining Mrs. Wellington and the Currie sisters. Hamish ambled over to join them despite a ferocious keep-out-of-this look on Mrs. Wellington’s face.
Harold wanted to berate Hamish over the trick he had played on him, but bit his lip when he realised how silly it would make him sound.
Nessie Currie said, “If you behave yourself, Hamish, there might even be a part for you.”
“A part in what?” Hamish asked curiously.
