“Got it with you?”
“Back at the station.”
Hamish noticed that Jimmy’s usually sharp foxy face was getting blurred round the edges and his blue eyes were watery. The amount the detective drank was at last beginning to show.
“What’s all this about burglaries?” asked Hamish.
“Lot of them at wee post offices.”
“What’s been done about it?”
“Nothing much. The territory’s huge and we never know where they’ll hit next. Blair wants to see you.”
The man himself lumbered out of his office. He was a thickset Glaswegian who loathed Hamish.
“There you are, you teuchter,” he snarled. “Anderson, gie him what we’ve got on thae burglaries. I want a quick result.”
Blair went back into his office and slammed the door.
“I’ve printed off all the reports for you,” said Jimmy. “It’s always the same. Three men, masked wi’ balaclavas. One wi’ a sawn-off shotgun. Nobody’s been hurt so far.”
“Any undercover cops been sent out to hide in the post offices?” asked Hamish.
“Aye, for a bit. But the villains always chose the one there wasn’t a cop in.”
Hamish pulled out a chair and sat down. “Now, there’s a thing. Could it be possible that some cheil here was giving them information?”
“Aw, come on, Hamish. It’s hardly the Great Train Robbery we’re talking about.”
“Who’s the newest policeman on the force?”
“Policewoman. Wee Alice Donaldson.”
“Where is she right now?”
“Off duty today. Och, Hamish. You just can’t think…”
“Of anything else,” said Hamish. “Let me have her address.”
Jimmy applied himself to the computer and then said, “Here it isv Write it down. Eight Bannoch Brae. That’s down near the docks. Not a tower block. There’s a row of wee houses just before you get to the tower blocks on the Inverness Road.”
“And what’s she like?”
“Neat, quiet. Come on, laddie. You’ve had too much sun.”
“It iss worth a try,” said Hamish angrily, the sudden sibilance of his accent showing he was uneasy. “I haff nothing else to go on.”
“Suit yourself. Did you get laid?”
But Hamish was already walking away.
When Hamish left headquarters, the wind had risen. Rain slashed into his face as he hurried to the Land Rover.
He found Bannoch Brae and parked outside number 8. “Won’t be long,” he said to his animals. “Sit there and shut up and I’ll buy ye a fish supper on the road home.”
There was a weedy garden in front of a small stone house. Hamish went up to the front door and rang the bell.
The door opened and a girl stood looking up at him. She was not very tall. Two wings of black hair hung on either side of a thin face.
“Alice Donaldson?” asked Hamish.
“Yes, that’s me. It’s my day off. Am I wanted back on duty?”
“No, I chust wanted to be having a wee word with you.”
“Come in.”
She stood aside to let him past and then closed the door and ushered him into a small front room.
The room seemed rather bleak. It was simply furnished with a three-piece suite and a paraffin heater in front of the empty fireplace.
“Sit down,” said Alice. “Tea?”
“No, thank you. I’m chust back from Spain and I haff been asked to investigate the burglaries of the post offices,” said Hamish, nervously wondering why his imagination had leapt to the conclusion that some member of the force had been tipping off the gang.
“Oh, yes? How can I help? I haven’t had anything to do with any of the cases.”
Hamish could not see much of her face because of those wings of hair. Didn’t they irritate her?
She was wearing a man’s shirt tied at the waist and a pair of worn jeans. His hazel eyes suddenly sharpened.
“What are you staring at?” she demanded.
“That looks like a cigarette burn on your neck,” said Hamish.
Her hand fluttered up to the burn. “It’s nothing. I’m clumsy.”
Hamish looked around the room. He could not see any ashtray; neither could he smell smoke. If she smoked, he thought, then the fabric upholstery would have retained some of the smell.
He was sitting at one end of the sofa and Alice was in an armchair next to him.
Hamish leaned forward suddenly and swept a wing of her hair back from her face. There was a black-and- yellow bruise on her cheek. She jerked her head back, and the other wing of hair flew back. The other side of her face was bruised as well.
“Who did this to ye, lassie?” asked Hamish gently.
“No one!” Her voice was shrill. “I’m clumsy. This is my day off. You’ve no right…”
“They beat you up for information, didn’t they?” said Hamish. “Do you know them, or did they just pick on you?”
She began to cry. Great sobs racked her body. Hamish waited patiently. He felt that if he comforted her, she might take it as a sign of weakness.
He took a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to her. It had been given to him by one of his admirers at the Spanish hotel who had even embroidered his initials in one corner.
At last she wiped her eyes and looked at him bleakly. “I’m finished with the force.”
“Let’s hear it,” said Hamish.
In a flat tired voice she told him what had happened. She had been out clubbing in Strathbane and had got picked up by a man, George MacDuff. They had gone out for a bit and then one evening he had come round with two friends, Hugh Sutherland and Andy Burnside. George had said the police were staking out post offices and they wanted her to tell them which ones. She refused. George got nasty. They tied her to a chair and stripped off her blouse and began to burn her with cigarettes. She said she was terrified and told them she would find out for them.
“You had their names and descriptions,” said Hamish. “Why didn’t you just report them?”
“George knows where my mother lives in Bonar Bridge. He said if I told anyone, they would kill her.”
“Lassie, the police could have put your mother under protection.”
“With Blair in charge?”
“Oh, well, maybe you have a point. What’s the next job?”
“They came round today. I said I wouldn’t tell them anything more and they beat me. I still wouldn’t tell them but they hurt me so much, I told them that the post offices were no longer under surveillance. George said something like ‘Leave her.’ Then as they went out, I heard one of the others say, ‘Braikie tomorrow’ll be our last anyway.’ I’d better get my coat. You’ll be taking me in.”
“Let me think.” Hamish ran his long fingers through his flaming red hair. “Who’s your doctor?”
“Dr. Sing.”
“Sympathetic?”
“He seemed like a nice man. I only saw him the once when I had a sprained ankle.”
“Get me his number.”
Supplied with the phone number, Hamish phoned Dr. Sing and asked him to call, adding that it was a police matter.
“What are you going to do?” asked Alice.
“Try to get you out of this.”
