“Not me. I can take it or leave it. The only problem I’ve got wi’ booze these days is that I don’t get nearly enough o’ it.”
“So what’s Blair doing about this mysterious hacker apart from wasting time sending you over here to annoy me and drink my Scotch?”
“He says someone found out his password and he never told anyone what it was.”
“Probably told someone in a bar at the top of his voice. What was the password? I assume he’s changed it.”
“Crap.”
“No, seriously, Jimmy, what was the password?”
“I’m telling you. Clean your ears. The password was CRAP.”
And how did a nicely brought up lady like Sarah think of that, marvelled Hamish.
“So what’s new?” he asked aloud.
“Maggie Bane was having an affair wi’ Gilchrist and so when she said she wasn’t, she was lying in her teeth, so it stands to reason that she was lying about everything else. She says she didn’t want to lose her good name. Can you believe it? Like a Victorian novel. But, by God, she sticks to everything else and Blair howled and howled, but he couldnae move her.”
“So who else is there? And what did Gilchrist die of?”
“Nicotine poison.”
“Now there’s a thing. And the man didnae smoke.”
“How did you know that?”
“There were no cigarettes or ashtrays anywhere and a big NO SMOKING sign on the surgery wall.”
“Come on, Hamish. Every doctor and dentist has a NO SMOKING sign up these days.”
“But he had two posters in the reception about the evils of smoking. A smoker wouldn’t have put them up.”
“Far-fetched to me. Maggie Bane could have put them up.”
“But she didn’t. She smokes herself.”
“So she says. Oh, well, nobody saw Gilchrist puff a cigarette and anyway, even if he had, it wouldn’t have given him nicotine poisoning enough to kill him like that.”
“So who’s the favourite suspect apart from Maggie?”
“Blessed if I know.”
“And what about thon burglary?”
“Johnny King had done time for two counts of drunken driving.”
“Time?” Hamish looked puzzled. “I thought they would just take his license away.”
“The second time was when he drove into the front of a police station. Peter Sampson has no record. Family boy. Clean living.”
“And what of Macbean?”
“Now let me think. Any more whisky?”
Hamish sighed and pushed the bottle across to him.
Jimmy poured a generous measure, sat back in his chair and put his feet on the desk.
“Macbean’s never been in trouble. I mean, he’s never been arrested. He was running a hotel in Selkirk for a long time and then suddenly got fired. Owners just say that the profits were going down and down but they admitted that they could not pin anything on Macbean.”
“And Mrs. Macbean?”
“Nothing there. Born Agnes Macwhirter. Born in Leith. Married Macbean twenty-five years ago. Nasty bit of work. Always in a temper about something.”
“Any reports of her husband beating her up?”
“No, but I hope he does and regularly. If I was married to that one, I’d beat her up myself.”
“I heard on the grapevine that Gilchrist and Maggie Bane had a bit o’ a scene in a pub in Inverness. If they broke up, it stands to reason that there might be a new woman on the scene.”
“If there was,” said Jimmy, “something’ll come up sooner or later.”
“Then there’s the ex,” said Hamish, thinking aloud. “She was married to him. She seems a nice woman but you can never tell from the outside, can you? She might have hated him like poison.”
“She’s got clear of him so she had nae reason to bump him off.”
Hamish picked up the whisky bottle and replaced the top. “I don’t want to keep you, Jimmy. I’ve got the work to do.”
“Oh, aye, forgot to feed the hens, did you?”
When Hamish had finally seen a reluctant Jimmy on his way, he ran into the police office, seized the phone and dialled the Tommel Castle Hotel and asked for Sarah.
When she came on the line, he asked, “How did you guess Blair’s password?”
Her voice sounded amused. “I maintain there are about twenty variations on passwords. From what you told me about Blair, I was sure it would be some sort of swear word. Is everything all right? They will know someone used Blair’s password, but if he has trouble with drink, then he’ll begin to wonder who he actually told and he won’t be able to remember. I wouldn’t worry about it. What are you doing now?”
“I’m going to interview a couple of people. Do you feel like doing some amateur investigation?”
“You want me to come with you?”
“No, I wondered if you would like to go over to The Scotsman Hotel today and listen to what’s going on. They won’t talk if they see me, but they might not guard their mouths in front of a tourist.”
“Good. I’d like to do that.”
Hamish gripped the receiver hard. “And maybe we could meet up later? I could pick you up.”
“Seven o’clock will be fine, if you’re through by then.”
“That’s chust grand…grand. I’ll see you then. Bye.”
Hamish put down the receiver and stood for a moment smiling idiotically at the phone. Then he pulled himself together and decided it was time he visited the Smiley brothers.
Small fine pellets of snow were beginning to be whipped down the loch on an icy wind. He gave a little sigh. Then he thought of Sarah. He hoped the snow would not get worse. He did not want to think of her skidding into a ditch on the Lairg road. But ahead of him loomed a large yellow truck. The Sutherland road glitters were already on the job. He passed the truck and headed off into the thickening snow. By the time he reached the Smiley brothers’ croft, the snow had suddenly stopped and pale yellow sunlight was flooding the whitened fields and the low croft house.
He noticed there was a new extension at the back of the croft house: a long low building with a corrugated iron roof and with steel shutters over all the windows.
He was just getting out of the Land Rover when the door of the cottage opened and Stourie Smiley came out to meet him, followed by his brother, Pete. Hamish knew both of them slightly, but he was taken aback again by their appearance. They looked living proof that trolls still walked the earth. Both were squat and barrel-chested and hairy. Thick mats of hair covered both their heads, and hair sprouted on their cheekbones, and tufts of hair poked out of their ears. Both had small, gleaming wet eyes and red faces. Both had very long arms.
“It’s yoursel’, Macbeth,” said Stourie. “What brings ye? Ye’ve got the sheep dip papers.” A visit by the police to a croft in the Highlands did not usually mean a report of death or accident, but merely a demand for sheep dip papers.
“Can we go inside and sit down for a minute?” asked Hamish. “I need your help.”
“Okay,” said Pete, “but don’t take too lang ower it. We’ve got work to do.”
He led the way into the croft house kitchen, a bleak stone-flagged room with a plastic-covered table in the centre and a few hard upright chairs.
Hamish sat down, took off his cap and put it on the table. “It is my belief you are running an illegal still.”
“Whit?” demanded Stourie. “Who tellt you that?”
The two trolls bristled at Hamish and the cold air of the kitchen was suddenly full of menace.
“Before you get your lies ready,” said Hamish, “listen to me. Thon dentist, Gilchrist, was poisoned with nicotine. Anyone who had a still could have extracted the nicotine by means of a still. Now, either you cooperate or I’ll get a team over from Strathbane with a search warrant and right behind them will come the Customs and
