—Lord Byron
“This is verra good of you, Officer,” said Scan, eating biscuits and drinking tea.
He was an old bearded man with young-looking, light grey eyes in a tanned and wrinkled face. His clothes smelled of peat smoke and heather, but nothing more sinister. Scan was a clean tramp.
“As a matter of fact, I’ve been looking for you,” said Hamish.
“It wisnae me that took Mrs. Hegarty’s knickers off the washing line, whateffer she might say,” said the tramp, looking frightened.
“Relax, Scan,” said Hamish, “Nothing criminal. Now, have you heard about the murders?”
“Over at Drim. Aye.”
“There’s one thing I want to know. There’s a writer called Patricia Martyn-Broyd. You probably don’t know her…”
“I know everyone,” said the tramp. His eyes ranged round the kitchen. “I’m still a wee bit hungry.”
Hamish went to the freezer and took out a plastic bag of stew. “I’ll heat this up for you.”
“Verra kind, I’m sure.”
“Now, Scan, while the stew’s heating up, tell me how you know Patricia, the writer woman.”
“I called at her cottage…oh, maybe a few months back.”
“I didnae know you had been up here that long. Where were you before that?”
“Down south, but it iss not the same as the Highlands.”
“So tell me what happened when you called at the cottage.”
“I asked her for a cup of tea and a bite and said I could do some odd jobs for her in return. Herself looked down her nose and said, “Be off with you or I’ll call the police.””
“So you know what she looks like,” said Hamish eagerly. “This is what I want to know. On the day of the murder of that actress, Patricia said she was in a state and chust driving about. She has a white Metro. Did you see her anywhere?”
“White Metro, no. That stew smells rare, Hamish.”
“Bide your time, Scan. It won’t even be thawed out yet. What do you mean, ‘white Metro, no’?”
“Chust that. I couldnae be sure, mind. I wass between here and Drim and…Here, you’re not trying to pin the murder on me!”
“No, no, Scan,” said Hamish soothingly. “What did you see?”
“It wass misty, all swirling about, coming and going. The car wass going that slowly, I had to step out o’ the road. Herself had the dark glasses on and I ‘member thinking, how could she see on a misty day in those things, and she had a headscarf on, dark blue.”
“So how could you tell it was her?”
“I thought when I first saw her she looked like a witch. It wass herself all right.”
“But the car. She wasn’t driving a white Metro?”
“I’m no good at cars, Hamish. It wass small and black.”
“But you are really sure it was her?”
“Aye.”
“And it was between here and Drim. What time of day?”
“I’d been sleeping in the heather and had not long got up. It must haff been about six in the morning.”
Hamish stared at him for a long moment. “Wait here, Scan,” he said. “I’ve got something to do.”
He went through to the bedroom and picked up the spilled pages of manuscript and began searching through them feverishly until he had found what he wanted. Then he went through to the police office and phoned Jimmy Anderson.
“I think I might be on to something, Jimmy,” he said.
“Hurry up, man. Thon Martyn-Broyd woman’s got her memory back and is about to be discharged and we’re all going up there with Lovelace to grovel and apologise.”
“Is there a car firm in Strathbane where you can rent a car, a place that would be open all night?”
“In Strathbane? Man, everything closes down as tight as a drum at six o’clock in the evening.”
“Thanks.”
“What’s it about?”
“Phone me later and I’ll let you know.”
Hamish had to fret and wait until he had fed the tramp and given him a few pounds. Then he took a statement from him and told him there would be more food and money for him if he reported to the police station the following day.
Then he set out for Cnothan.
¦
Sheila Burford’s mobile phone rang. The actors stopped acting, the camera stopped rolling and Harry Frame shouted, “I told everyone to switch their phones off.”
“I’m sorry,” said Sheila, taking the ringing mobile phone out of her bag. “I’m expecting an important call.”
“You’re fired,” shouted Harry, but Sheila was already walking away, the phone to her ear.
Fiona King, watching Sheila, saw the sudden look of radiant joy on the girl’s face as she tucked the phone back into her bag.
Sheila hurried away from the filming and towards the manse.
The minister answered the door and reluctantly let her in, damning her as another of those friends who had so altered his hitherto submissive wife’s personality for the worst.
“What is it, Sheila?” asked Eileen, who was rolling pastry in the kitchen.
The minister went into his study and slammed the door. “Come outside a moment,” whispered Sheila. “Great news.”
Eileen went out to the garden with her.
Sheila swung round to face her. “We’re a success! Scottish Television want us both in Glasgow as soon as possible. They’re buying your film!”
“Oh, my,” said Eileen, dazed. “Do I have to tell Colin? He’ll start ranting and raging again. I thought I had something on him, I thought he was having an affair with a woman down in Inverness, but he says he was comforting a poor widow, and it’s all in my dirty mind, and he’s suddenly stopped going away on trips.”
“Is he out today?”
“Yes, he’s got to go to Lochdubh to see Mr. Wellington, the minister over there, about something.”
“What time?”
“About two o’clock.”
“I’ve got to pack up, and so have you. I’ll call round for you. You can leave him a note.”
“I’ll do it,” said Eileen. “I was going to leave him anyway.”
Ailsa Kennedy came up the garden towards them. “Not a word,” hissed Sheila. “I don’t want anyone to know until the contract’s signed.”
Sheila ran off. “What was all that about?” asked Ailsa.
“Oh, nothing much,” said Eileen, feeling disloyal, but desperately improvising. “She just wanted to know if I would be in a crowd scene.”
“And what did you say?”
“I said Colin wouldn’t approve.”
Ailsa snorted. “He can’t say anything about anything after the way he’s been going on.”
“That’s just the trouble. He says nothing has been going on and I have no proof.”
“That’s daft. Ignore him. Come and join us. We’re all on in a few moments.”
“No…I’ll stay here.” Eileen held up her floury hands. “I’m baking.”
“Your husband’s got you in a right state. I’ve a good mind to go in there and give him a piece of my mind, minister or no minister.”
“I’ll see you later, Ailsa. I promise. I’ve got to get on.”
Eileen served her husband lunch and then waited impatiently until at last he got in the car and drove off. She
