Hamish and Jimmy came out of the superintendent’s office. “You can go in now,” said Helen.
“And how are you?” asked Daviot, looking doubtfully at Blair. “I thought you were going to be away for a few weeks.”
“They decided I wasn’t an alcoholic,” lied Blair. “It was all a result of a dirty trick played on me by that Russian.” He described the vodka-drinking session and ended by saying, “You must see, sir, I couldnae do anything else, with her being a visitor and all.”
“I think, however, you should go home and get some more rest,” said Daviot. “Detective Inspector Anderson can cope with everything.”
¦
Blair left in a foul mood. He could see the day approaching when he would be forced into early retirement and Jimmy Anderson would get his job. And he would hate to leave the force without first getting rid of Hamish Macbeth.
And then he had a brilliant idea. If some murderer was looking for Hamish Macbeth, why not help the murderer to find him?
He checked through his notebook and then headed down to the dismal tower blocks at the docks and was soon knocking on a dirty, scarred door.
“How are you, Tommy?” said Blair to the unsavoury creature who answered the door.
“I’m jist fine, so don’t you go trying tae pin anything on me.”
“I want you to do something for me. I’ll pay you. Or can I put it another way: If you don’t do it, I’ll have you back inside as soon as I can.”
“You’ll pay me?”
“Right. I want you to go over to Lochdubh, go to that bar on the waterfront, and spread a wee bit o’ gossip around.”
“Like what?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
¦
Hamish drove an unmarked car down into the village of Grianach.
To the side of the beach was a jetty with a lone fishing boat bobbing at anchor. The village consisted of a few fishermen’s cottages, a small church, and a general store and post office.
He went into the tiny dark shop. He wondered how it managed to survive. There was a musty smell of old grain and the scent of paraffin from a heater.
A small man appeared from the back of the shop. He was almost dwarf size, and Hamish felt an unreasonable stab of superstitious unease. For the fairies, which now only the old people believed in, were not glittery little things with wings but small, dark, troll-like men.
A half-remembered poem learned at school came into his head.
The shopkeeper had a thick thatch of black hair and bright green eyes. His face was sallow, his nose large, and his mouth very long and thin.
He asked Hamish in Gaelic what he wanted. With an effort, Hamish managed to reply in the same language, saying he was looking for Third Cottage.
The man replied that if he went out of the door, turned left, and went up the brae, the cottage was the last one on the left.
Hamish had brought groceries with him, but, to be polite, he bought a loaf of bread, two tins of baked beans, and a slab of Mull cheddar. Then he got back into his car and drove up a cobbled lane until he found the house. He unlocked the cottage door and went in.
The cottage was cold and smelled damp. There was a fireplace but no coal, peat, or logs. The living room was furnished with a scarred round table and two upright chairs. A couple of canvas director’s seats of the kind sold for a few pounds in petrol station shops were placed on either side of the fire. The floor was stone-flagged with only a ratty rug to cover a little of it. The kitchen was in a lean-to at the back, along with a bathroom whose tub was browned by peaty water. The toilet had the lid missing. The kitchen boasted a battered electric stove, an electric kettle, and a small fridge; in the cupboard were a few cups and plates along with a frying pan and one pot. Then there was the ‘best’ room, the one traditionally kept for funerals and weddings. It had a three-piece suite in uncut moquette, badly stained, a small television set, a standard lamp, and a badly executed oil painting above the mantelpiece of hills and heather.
He moved through to the bedroom: one double bed with army-type blankets and a slippery green quilt, a large old wardrobe, and a bedside table with the King James Bible on it.
He sighed and went back out to the car and let the dog and cat out. He carried in a box of groceries and then his suitcase and fishing rod and tackle.
He was just putting down bowls of water in the kitchen for the animals – glad he had brought bowls along, for there were none in the kitchen – when there came a knock at the door.
He opened it and looked down at the small, round woman who stood there. “I’ve brought you some of my scones,” she said. “I’m Ellie Mackay from ower the road.”
“That’s verra kind of you. Come ben,” said Hamish. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, I’ve got to get on.” She had a cheerfully rosy face and grey hair showing from under a headscarf.
“Do you know where I can get some peats or coal?” asked Hamish.
“There’s a wee shed in the back garden,” she said. “There wass stuff in there. This wass supposed to be a holiday let but the holiday folk last time round took wan look at the place and cleared off.”
“I’m right surprised you get any visitors at all.”
“Oh, we get a busload every second week.”
“Tourists?”
“Aye, it’s a firm what calls itself Discover Secret Scotland.”
“Surely they pack up after the summer. There’s hardly any light up here now.”
“They come round the midday. A blessing it is, too. There are a few folks here that carve wooden things – you know, little statues, candlesticks, things like that. Callum down at the stores sells them. He only speaks the Gaelic to them because they love that. But when the bus arrives, we’ve got stalls out on the harbour.”
“Where’s the best place to fish?”
“If you go on up the road a bit, you’ll come to the Corrie River. You don’t need a permit and if you’re lucky, you might be getting a few trout.”
¦
After she had gone, Hamish went out to the shed in the garden and found slabs of peat stacked up, a sack of coal, a pile of logs, and some kindling. He was amazed the locals hadn’t raided it.
He decided to go fishing while it was still light and set off for the river with his rod, the dog and cat following behind. He fished contentedly, catching four trout before the sky turned pale green, heralding the long, dark winter night.
The bus was a problem, but no one knew where he was, so he had nothing to fear. Back at the cottage, he lit the fire in the ‘best’ room, glad that it seemed to be drawing well, and then went through to the kitchen. He gave Sonsie a trout and fried up some deer liver he had brought with him for Lugs. Then he dipped two trout in oatmeal and fried them for his supper along with boiled potatoes and peas.
After dinner, he lay on the sofa after throwing a travel rug over it, and settled down to read an American detective story. Hamish liked American detective stories where the hero seemed to be always partnered with some beautiful female with green eyes and high cheekbones. He liked particularly the ones that were comfortingly familiar. The hero would at one point be suspended and then brought back with the grim warning “You’ve got twenty-four hours.” He got to the bit where the hero was beating up the villain. Good thing he’s not in Britain, thought Hamish cynically, or the villain would sue for assault.
