She went outside and Hamish waited while she put on a man’s overcoat and cap and then strapped wooden blocks onto her feet so that she could reach the pedals. He waited until she had reversed out into the road, climbed into the Land Rover and followed her. In his lights, with her cap pulled down, she looked like a man. To his relief she drove quickly and competently over the roads and down into Drim. She parked outside, untied the blocks from her feet and climbed down from the truck. “They sleep like the dead,” she whispered. “I’ll creep in. Don’t tell anyone. Chust come tomorrow.”
Hamish nodded and waited. She opened the house door gently and slipped inside.
He drove off, his thoughts grim. He hoped to God that Heather was mistaken, that Peter Hynd had simply taken himself off.
¦
A sunny morning restored his spirits and banished most of the ghosts of the night before, although he was still furious with Priscilla.
He went straight to the general stores in Drim. “I heard that Peter Hynd had left,” he said to Jock Kennedy. “When was that?”
“Two weeks ago,” said Jock. “Found a note from him pushed in the shop letter-box along with the key. Said he’d gone off south and left the sale of the cottage in the hands o’ Cummings and Bane, the estate agents in Strathbane.”
“Still got the note?”
“Yes, I hae it here.” He ferreted around under the counter and came up with a folded piece of paper. Hamish opened it and read it. It was type-written and unsigned. “Got bored,” it said, “and am putting the cottage up for sale. Could you give the key to any prospective buyer, Jock? The agents are Cummings and Bane, Strathbane. My solicitors are Brand and MacDougal, Castle Wynd, Inverness. Peter Hynd.” But the ‘Peter Hynd’ was type- written.
Hamish frowned down at the letter. “Any takers?” he said at last.
“Aye, there was a big fellow, a builder from Newcastle, up the other day. Hynd’s only asking fifteen thousand.”
“I doubt if he’ll get that. Did he finish the drainage?”
“No.”
“Well…”
“But the field at the back goes wi’ the house. This chap from Newcastle, he wass talking about maybe getting building permission. Wants it for a holiday cottage.” And with a fine disregard for any European Market directives on hygiene, Jock spat contemptuously on the shop floor.
“I’ve no doubt you’ll give him a right Highland welcome,” said Hamish drily. “Let me have the key, Jock. I’ll take a look around.”
For one brief moment Hamish thought he was going to refuse, but after a short hesitation the big man took down a key from a nail behind the counter and handed it over.
Hamish left the Land Rover where it was and walked up to Peter’s cottage. He let himself in and stood sniffing the air.
Towser, who had followed him in, sniffed the air as well. “Nobody been in here for a while,” said Hamish. “Let’s look about.”
Peter had left the pots and pans and dishes behind but the camping stove had gone. There were half-empty packets of grocery goods in the cupboards. A small fridge was switched off and proved empty. At the back of the house were piles of wood and bricks, showing that Peter had meant to start on the extension. Tools were lying on the floor and a couple of trestles held planks waiting to be sawn. Hamish shook his head. Surely Peter would have wanted to finish the work and, therefore, get a better price. There were also piles of slates showing where he had meant to take off the iron roof and replace it with a proper one.
Hamish went through to the parlour, which Peter had used as a dining-room-cum-sitting-room. There was nothing of value left, no television, no radio, and no books, just some pieces of furniture. Hamish went back to the living-room, which Peter had used as a kitchen. He picked up the ladder lying against the wall and climbed up to the trapdoor in the ceiling, and pushed it open and climbed through. He found himself in the bedroom. There was a low double bed against one wall, with a low table beside it. There were no sheets or blankets on the bed. He searched around the corners of the room, but all he could find was one hairpin. He held it up to the light coming through the skylight. It was a blonde-coloured pin. He put it in his pocket and climbed down the stairs again.
He scratched his head. Why would Peter leave a note with Jock Kennedy, of all people? He locked up and put the key in his pocket.
As he strolled back down, he could hear the beat of music coming from the community hall. He went up to it and pushed open the door. Only four women were gyrating to the music. He waited patiently until the tape finished and then approached Edie Aubrey. She pushed back her lank hair and blinked at him through her thick glasses.
“Not many women,” commented Hamish.
“No,” agreed Edie sadly, “things are not the same.”
“Since Hynd left?”
“Why did he go just like that?” muttered Edie. She picked a towel up from a chair and wiped her forehead. “He might at least have called to say goodbye.”
“Did anyone see him go?” asked Hamish.
“Nobody’s really spoken to me about it.” Hamish turned and surveyed the women. Nancy Macleod was there, grey roots now showing in the black dye of her hair. She looked much smaller and older. Ailsa, Jock’s wife, was sipping coffee and talking to Betty Baxter. The other woman he did not know. They were all suddenly older, thought Hamish, as if the life had gone out of them. He approached Betty Baxter. “Is Harry at home?”
“Aye, the silly fool got drunk and couldnae go to the fishing.”
“I’ll maybe drop by for a word.”
“Why?” asked Betty sharply.
“I’m trying to find out why Peter Hynd left, or if anyone saw him leave.”
“And what’s that got to do with Harry?”
“He may have heard or seen something, that’s all.”
“There’s no crime,” said Betty with a shrill laugh. “For heffen’s sake, the man’s gone, put his house up for sale, and that’s that.”
“Nevertheless, I’ll be having a word with Harry.” Hamish touched his cap and left.
Harry Baxter was sitting at the kitchen table, staring at nothing in particular.
“Rough night?” asked Hamish sympathetically.
Harry stared at him moodily but did not reply.
“Any reason why Hynd left?” pursued Hamish.
Harry made an obvious effort to gather his wits together. “Och, he wass jist playing himself at being a Highlander. Gone back south, I believe.”
“Did anyone see him go?”
“Folks reckon he left during the night.”
“Any trouble with the villagers before he left?”
“Why should there be?”
“Don’t be daft,” said Hamish crossly. “All you men hated him and with good reason.”
“He’s jist gone, that’s all. Haven’t ye mair to do than look for a murder that doesn’t exist?”
“I didn’t say anything about murder. Where’s Heather?”
“At school. School’s started.”
“Keep an eye on that lassie o’ yours, Harry. I think those rows you’ve been having with Betty are upsetting her.”
“Mind your ain business,” snapped Harry.
Hamish decided to try Jimmy Macleod but when he went out to the Land Rover, his radio crackled into life. He looked at it in mild surprise. He hardly ever got a call on it. It was Detective Jimmy Anderson, asking him to report immediately to Strathbane, to the chief superintendent’s office.
Hamish’s gloomy thought was that his boss had finally got into the act and that promotion and Strathbane were an inevitability. He had a shrewd idea that hitherto the chief superintendent had kept apart from his wife’s
