He went straight to Chief Detective Inspector Blair’s room and popped his head round the door. It was empty. He darted in and put Helen’s cup on the desk and then returned to the canteen.
He got himself a cup of tea and a plate of egg and chips I and rejoined Jimmy.
“So Dolan’s got it in for you,” said Jimmy. “You know I what’s odd about that?”
“Apart from damned cheek, no.”
“Our beloved leader, Blair, paid a visit on Dolan. Not his case really. All sewn up tidy. Dolan admitted to the other burglaries in Carrask. Quiet as a lamb. So Blair comes out wi’ a fat grin on his unlovely face and the next thing Dolan’s ringing his bell and calling fur a lawyer and filing a complaint against one Hamish Macbeth.”
“That bastard!”
“Aye, well, there you are.”
“And where’s Dolan now?”
“In the remand wing o’ Strathbane pokey awaiting trial.”
Hamish gloomily ate his egg and chips and then went down and borrowed Jimmy’s desk and filed his second report on the arrest of Dolan. His thoughts turned to Priscilla. He felt alone with his problems and wanted to unburden himself. But before he returned to Lochdubh, he might as well check the estate agent’s.
Cummings and Bane was the same estate agent as the one he had visited with Priscilla. This time he told the young man who he was officially and asked about the sale of Peter’s house.
“Yes, that’s all in order,” said the young man, “Mr. Hynd called on us personally. We think we may have a sale already. We have the name of the lawyers in Inverness.”
“I have that,” said Hamish moodily. That was that. No mystery.
He drove back to Lochdubh and went straight to Tommel Castle. He had forgotten about his anger at Priscilla but experienced it again when he saw her looking cool and remote. But he needed to unburden himself. He told her first about how his investigations in Drim had been cut short. She listened carefully to his tale of Dolan and Miss Tabbet. When he had finished, she said, “Would you like me to have a word with Susan Daviot?”
“That wouldn’t help. There’s nothing she can do. Dolan’s made the complaint, got a lawyer, and the whole thing will grind on to an inquiry and then I will probably be suspended. I’ve put up too many backs in Strathbane.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll see what I can do.”
“Och, what the hell can you do,” snapped Hamish, suddenly disgusted by what he saw as her cool detachment from him.
Priscilla sadly watched him go. It was all such a mess. Why hadn’t she waited for him at the police station? But she did not want to answer her own question, so she turned her mind to Hamish’s story.
She went through to the office and phoned Susan Daviot.
“Hamish is in trouble and all because of this fool Dolan,” said Priscilla.
Mrs. Daviot’s voice lacked its usual ingratiating warmth. “It seems to me, Priscilla, as if Hamish went over the top. Now Dolan’s sister is making trouble and threatening to talk to the newspapers before the inquiry.”
“What’s her name?”
“Bridget Dolan.”
“And where does she live?”
“That’s clessified information.”
“Dear me, aren’t we being a trifle stupid, Susan?” Priscilla was at her haughtiest.
“But I cannot tell you secret information. Never mind. When are we meeting for a little chat?”
“I am going to be much too busy in the future, Susan.”
Susan Daviot saw her social ambitions biting the dust. “Come to think of it, I did hear that the Dolan woman was living at number forty, Winnie Mandela Court.”
“Thank you, Susan. I’ve just remembered, next Tuesday is a quiet day if you would care to come for tea.”
Mrs. Daviot sent up a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the god who looks after social climbers. “Thank you, Priscilla, dear.”
Priscilla grinned and put down the phone. She went out and drove off to Carrask and parked in front of the schoolteacher’s house and waited patiently while the afternoon wore on. At last she saw a figure who could only be the schoolteacher returning and climbed out of the car. “Miss Tabbet?”
Miss Tabbet swung round and looked favourably at the elegant creature in front of her. “What can I do for you, Miss…?”
“Miss Churchill. I represent the Daily Bugle.”
The smile faded on Miss Tabbet’s face. The Daily Bugle was one of Britain’s sleaziest tabloids.
“And what do you want with me?” asked Miss Tabbet.
“You made a report to Strathbane police which contained complaints against a certain police sergeant, Hamish Macbeth. In it, you said he had come into your bedroom.”
“Yes, but – ”
“Good stuff, that,” said Priscilla cheerfully.
“Schoolmarm lures copper into her bedroom.”
“But he burst into my room when I was asleep.”
“‘The Sexy Copper’? Even better.”
“This is dreadful,” said Miss Tabbet. “I do not want my name in the papers. I have always been a respectable body. You ruin people. Look what you did to dear Prince Charles! I will have you stopped.”
“As long as you’ve made an official complaint. Come on. Let’s go indoors. My photographer will be along in a minute and I want to be ahead of the pack.”
“THE PACK!”
“Yes, they’ll all be along. Maybe you’d like to fix your hair and put on a shorter skirt.”
“I’m withdrawing any complaint,” screamed Miss Tabbet.
“But that means there’ll be no story!” cried Priscflla.
“That’s it men. I’m doing it now. Get out of my way.”
Priscilla watched with amusement as the terrified teacher scampered to a garage at the side of the bungalow. Moments later an old Rover was backed out, with Miss Tabbet crouched over the wheel. She turned and drove off down the road in the direction of Strathbane.
Waiting until she was out of sight, Priscilla followed along the Strathbane road at a leisurely speed.
When she arrived in Strathbane, she took out a folder of maps and selected a street map of Strathbane and located Winnie Mandela Court and drove there. It turned out to be one of those depressing Stalinist tower blocks boasting a broken urine-smelling elevator and acres of graffiti. Priscilla trudged up the stairs. A group of skinheads barred her way on the first landing. “I am from the Social Security Department,” said Priscilla frostily, “investigating dole claims.”
They shrank back and let her past. Priscilla reflected that if she had said she was a policewoman, they would probably have beaten her up.
Finally she reached number 40 along a rubbish-littered balcony which afforded a view of the grim harbour. The door was answered by a massive woman with dyed-blonde hair and a face so covered with broken veins that it looked like an ordnance-survey map. “What d’ye want?” she asked, the watery eyes of the habitual drinker raking Priscilla up and down.
“I am from the Daily Bugle,” said Priscilla. “We are interested in buying your brother’s story about police brutality.”
“Come in,” said Bridget eagerly. “I phoned youse lot up but you says you weren’t interested.”
“Some amateur took the call.” Priscilla was ushered into a living-room which was awful in its filth and dreariness. She sat down on a hard chair after looking suspiciously at the greasy stains on the upholstered ones.
“I’ll tell you all I know,” said Bridget.
“My newspaper is prepared to pay a large sum, but I need to see your brother in person. Do you by any chance have a visitor’s pass?”
Her eyes gleamed. “I have one for tomorrow morning – ten o’clock.”
Priscilla opened her handbag and took out her wallet. She extracted two twenties. “Just something on
