Later that day Kylie stood with her friend, Tootsie Duffy, outside Mrs. Edwardson’s shop. Mrs. Edwardson was just locking up. “Did you ever see such fashions?” crowed Kylie. “I wouldnae be seen dead in one of them. Tell you what, one o’ them would make a good shroud.”
Tootsie shrieked with mirthless laughter. Tootsie hardly ever found anything funny but she supplied a sort of canned laughter to her friend’s sallies.
Mrs. Edwardson whipped round and stared at Kylie with contempt. “You’d better just watch yourself, my girl. The police have been asking me about you and Gilchrist.”
Kylie stood, her small mouth hanging a little open. “What d’you mean?”
“Just what I said.” Mrs. Edwardson stalked off, her back rigid.
Tootsie moved a wad of gum to the other side of her mouth and asked, “You and auld Gilchrist?”
“Spiteful old twat,” said Kylie viciously. “I could do with a drink.”
They walked into The Drouthy Crofter, both teetering on high heels, oblivious to already cold and wet feet. Tootsie’s long skinny legs were purple with cold. But one must suffer to be beautiful.
Kyle pouted when she saw the pub was still empty. She did not like spending her own money.
“Getting yourself in trouble with the police?” asked the barman after he had taken their order.
“What is this?” demanded Kylie angrily.
“That tall policeman wi’ the red hair was in here asking if Gilchrist had been getting his leg over.”
“It’s police harassment,” said Tootsie. “You should report him, Kylie.”
Kylie tossed her short blonde locks. “And I will, too,” she said savagely. “Just you see if I don’t.”
¦
Sarah sat in a corner of the bar-reception area at The Scotsman Hotel, pretending to read a book, but listening carefully. Two men who looked like detectives went into the hotel office. Then a small angry-looking middle-aged woman went up to the bar and said, “Give me a whisky. The decent stuff.”
Sarah looked at her curiously as the barman said, “Right you are, Mrs. Macbean.”
Mrs. Macbean had a headful of bright green plastic rollers. Mrs. Macbean picked up her drink and turned around. She saw Sarah looking at her and glared. Sarah smiled tentatively.
Mrs. Macbean walked over. “Were you looking at me?”
Sarah smiled into her truculent face. “I’m just a tourist and I wanted to ask someone if this hotel was a comfortable place to stay.”
The anger left Mrs. Macbean’s face and she sat down opposite Sarah. “I’m married to the manager,” she said. “The rooms are clean and the rates are cheap. Then we have the bingo Saturday night, if you’re interested.”
“Not really,” said Sarah. “I never win anything. I am one of life’s losers.”
“Me too.” Mrs. Macbean took a moody sip at her whisky. “Men,” she said bitterly.
“Tell me about it. They’re all bastards,” said Sarah encouragingly. “We’re still brought up to think the knight on the white charger is coming to look after us.”
“But all we get is horse shit,” said Mrs. Macbean. She jerked her thumb in the direction of the office. “That’s all he talks.”
Normally Sarah would quickly have disengaged herself from such a conversation.
“My husband’s the same,” she said.
“You don’t wear a wedding ring.”
Sarah gave her a slow smile. “I threw it down the toilet, and do you know why?”
“Go on. Tell me.” Mrs. Macbean now looked positively friendly.
“He beat me up.”
“And you took it?”
Sarah spread her hands in a deprecatory gesture. “What else could I do? He was stronger than me. So I got a divorce.”
“Lassie, lassie.” Mrs. Macbean shook her head and a curler fell into her glass of whisky. “Don’t you see that’s what they want? You get a divorce and settle for lousy terms or nothing at all. A man isnae as strong as a woman with a breadknife in her hand, remember that.”
Sarah looked at her, wide-eyed. “You sound to me like a very brave woman.”
Mrs. Macbean took another sip of whisky. Sarah noticed with horror that she was straining it through the roller, which had floated to the top of her glass, but did not want to say anything for fear of drying up this interesting conversation.
Mrs. Macbean preened. “You have to learn to take care of yourself. Brian, that’s him.” She jerked a thumb again in the direction of the office. “He used his fists on me last week. Well, he likes hot chocolate in the mornings so I put a whole lot of laxative in it. “You lay a hand on me and next time it’ll be poison, buster,” that’s what I said.”
Sarah gazed at her in well-feigned admiration.
“He’s useless, that’s what he is. Did you know we had the burglary here?”
“No!”
“Fact. Two hundred and fifty thousands pounds out o’ the safe.”
“How? Gelignite?”
“Naw. The damn fool had this safe wi’ a wooden back. Thought no one would find out.”
“But he’ll get the insurance.”
“I don’t think so. The insurance company said a safe like that was jist like leaving the money lying on the bar.”
“How terrible for you. And I’ll bet he made you think it was all your fault.”
“That’s it. That’s what he did.”
“But he couldn’t get away with it. I mean, you didn’t buy the safe.”
“Isn’t that what I told him? He said I musta told someone about the wooden back on the safe. As if I would!”
Sarah’s fine eyes glowed with sympathy. “I think you have a very hard life, Mrs. Macbean.”
Mrs. Macbean took another roller-flavoured sip of whisky. “Aye, that’s the truth.”
“I never thought of any crime being committed up here,” said Sarah. “I mean, people like me come up here for the quality of life.”
“Quality of life! Ha! Sheep and rain and cold and a lot o’ stupid teuchters.”
“Teuchters?”
“Highlanders. Sly, malicious and stupid. I hate the bastards.”
Sarah looked puzzled. “But they’re all Scottish. Just like you.”
“Don’t insult me.” Sarah covered her glass as another roller flew through the air. Mrs. Macbean leaned forward and whispered, “It’s like one o’ those primitive tribes up the Amazon. They havenae evolved.”
“You are a philosopher.”
“I’ve got my head screwed on.”
“I did hear about a murder up here. Some dentist.”
Mrs. Macbean’s face suddenly closed up. She had a mouth like Popeye’s and it seemed to disappear up under her nose.
“Got to go,” she muttered.
Sarah watched her march off, and then stop at the bar to whisper something to the barman. What would Hamish make of that, she wondered. Eager to tell all the secrets of her marriage life and talk about the burglary, but clams up when Gilchrist is mentioned.
The barman approached her. “Would you be wanting anything else?” he asked truculently.
“No, thank you.”
“Right.” He picked up her unfinished drink and walked off with the glass.
Sarah’s protest died on her lips. She felt she had done enough investigation for Hamish Macbeth for one day. Through the smeared glass of the windows, she could see the snow was falling ever thicker. She stood up and put on her coat. She had never credited herself with an overactive imagination, yet she could swear as she walked to the door that the air was heavy with menace.
