As they drove off, Maggie said tentatively, “I don’t want to distress you further, Hamish, with speculation, but is the vet sure it was a natural death?”
“Yes.”
“How old was Towser?”
“Twelve.”
“That’s a good age for a dog.”
Hamish stared bleakly out of the window and did not reply.
“Which way would you like to take?” asked Maggie. “The new bridge over to Dornoch?”
“The Struie Pass and then Bonar Bridge, then Lairg.”
“Right you are. I’ve never been to Sutherland before.”
Hamish did not reply. Maggie switched on the radio. Moray Firth Radio sprang into life. The music of The Beatles filled the car.
Correctly judging that Hamish did not want to talk, Maggie drove steadily ever westward. She looked at the sky ahead and began to wish that she had put a sweater in the car, or even a raincoat. When they reached the viewpoint on the Struie Pass, Hamish said, “That’s Sutherland.”
Ahead of them lay range after range of mountains. The clouds above were cut by shafts of light, the kind William Blake has angels using as ladders. Maggie, not much given to sensitive feelings, none the less suppressed a little shiver. It was as if she were crossing the boundary into some weird savage land, so different from the tidy fields and towns of Fife, or the flat land around Dungarton in Moray. They stopped in Lairg for a bar lunch in the Sutherland Arms Hotel, hardly talking. Maggie was beginning to feel increasingly uncomfortable. She felt it was all a waste of time. Hamish, mourning his dead pet, was not going to talk about the case.
As she drove deeper into Sutherland under the shadow of the pillared mountains along a one-track road leading to the coast, Maggie found her voice. “It looks as if it’s getting cold, Hamish. Can you lend me a sweater when we get there?”
“Yes, I can find you something. No, don’t turn off. Go straight towards Lochinver and then take the coast road north.”
“Far to go?”
“Not far now,” said Hamish.
The wind of Sutherland had begun to blow, rugging savagely at Maggie’s small car, roaring across the sky above, sending ragged clouds streaming out above their heads.
She turned off at Lochinver and headed along a twisting coast road. The full force of the Atlantic thudded in on the rocky beach below the road. Weird twisted mountains reared up on the other side. A pair of buzzards cruised effortlessly on strong wings through the gale.
“That looks a posh place,” commented Maggie as she drove past the wrought-iron gates leading to Tommel Castle Hotel.
“Fairly pricey,” said Hamish, averting his eyes.
The one-track road plunged downhill again.
“Here’s Lochdubh,” said Hamish.
Maggie drove over a picturesque humpbacked bridge. Lochdubh straggled along beside the sea loch of Lochdubh, whitewashed cottages, pretty gardens, a harbour with fishing boats riding at anchor on the choppy waves.
He directed her to the police station and told her to park at the side. He was just tenderly lifting Towser’s dead body out of the back of the car when Mrs Wellington came bustling up.
“So you’re back,” remarked the minister’s wife. Maggie saw a large tweedy woman with a heavy face, a heavy bust, and an efficient air about her.
“I’ve come to bury my dog,” said Hamish flatly.
“Oh, Hamish,” said Mrs Wellington weakly. “What happened?”
“Chust died. Chust like that,” said Hamish. “I’m going to bury him up in the field at the back o’ the station.”
“Now?”
“In about an hour. This is Policewoman Maggie Donald. Miss Donald, Mrs Wellington, the minister’s wife.”
Maggie held out her hand, but Mrs Wellington did not seem to see it. Her large features were puckered up in distress as she watched Hamish carry the tartan rug-covered bundle out of the car. She turned abruptly and marched away. Hamish walked up the side of the house, and holding the bundle in one arm, fished in his pocket for the key and unlocked the door.
“I’ll make us some coffee,” said Maggie. Her voice sounded too bright and hard in her own ears. “Where’s the cooker?”
“It’s that stove over there. I’ll light it in a minute.” Hamish walked through to the bedroom and laid Towser gently on the bed.
He came back into the kitchen and handed Maggie a sweater which she gratefully pulled on. He took kindling and newspaper from a basket next to the stove and got to work. Then, when the stove was roaring away, he put the kettle on the top. “It won’t take long,” he said. “I’d better check my machine for messages.”
He went off into the office part of the station. Maggie opened cupboard doors until she found the one with cups and a jar of instant coffee. “No milk,” she called.
“There’s a box of powdered milk on the counter,” Hamish shouted back.
When the kettle boiled, Maggie made a couple of mugs of coffee. Hamish reappeared and sat down heavily. “Nothing much to worry about on the machine,” he said. “It’s been nice and quiet. I phoned Sergeant Macgregor at Cnothan – him that’s covering for me – and he says nothing at all has been happening.”
He pushed the cup of coffee away from him. “I think I’ll go up back and dig the grave. I cannae relax until this is over. No, you stay here,” he added quickly as Maggie rose to her feet. “There’s a television in the living room if you want to watch anything.”
“All right,” said Maggie awkwardly.
When he had gone, she carried her coffee-mug through to the living room and looked curiously around. There were a few battered chairs, a worn Wilton carpet, a bookshelf crammed with paperbacks, a stand full of sticks, crooks and fishing-rods, a good painting over the fireplace of a Highland scene, and a table at the window piled high with official papers and forms that had found their way from the cluttered office next door. There were some photographs on the mantelpiece. She studied them, cradling the cup in her hands. There was a family group, Hamish in the forefront, all of them with red hair like his. Then there was a photograph of Hamish standing on the waterfront beside a beautiful and elegant blonde. He had his arm around her and both looked radiantly happy. There was another of Hamish in a deck chair outside the police station, fast asleep.
She switched on the television set and sat down wondering who the beautiful blonde was. Was this the fiancee she had heard he had ditched?
There was a discussion on BBC 1 over the correct use of condoms. She stood up again – there was no remote control – and switched channels until she found an old black-and-white movie with Gary Grant and settled down to watch it.
After some time, she became aware of voices, cars arriving, noise and movement outside. She switched off the television set and went to the kitchen door and opened it.
Villagers were filing past in a long line. Round the back of the house they went and up to the field. She backed away from the door as Hamish appeared. He did not say anything. He went through to the bedroom and picked up the bundle that was Towser and went out again. After a few moments, she followed him.
Surely the whole village was there, she thought, startled, as she set off up the hill after him. Silent men and women stood around the grave Hamish had dug. The men were even wearing their ‘best’ suits, the tight old– fashioned ones they took out of mothballs for weddings and funerals. She tried to find it ridiculous, that a whole village should turn out for the funeral of one mongrel, but there was something imposing in the scene. The ragged clouds flew overhead, whipping at the women’s scarves and skirts. The solemn faces seemed to belong to an older time. She could see the minister at the edge of the grave in his black suit and dog collar. Surely he was not going to read the burial service.
She joined the crowd around the grave but could not see anything because of the press of people and so she
