Hamish and waved him over.
Her companion, advertising executive Jerry Darcy, was a kind and amiable man. But the sight of the tall, gangly policeman with the flaming red hair leading an odd mongrel with big ears and blue eyes was too much for him. He began to laugh helplessly.
“Jerry, please,” admonished Priscilla. “This is our policeman, Hamish Macbeth. Hamish, Jerry Darcy.”
Jerry wiped his streaming eyes and got courteously to his feet. “Something amusing you?” demanded Hamish.
“Sorry,” said Jerry with a grin. “It was you and that dog.”
“And what iss up with my dog?”
“It’s an odd-looking animal, you must admit.”
“There iss nothing whateffer up wi’ my dog,” said Hamish, furious because he felt ridiculous, furious because Priscilla’s beau was handsome and well-dressed.
Lugs, sensing his master’s rage, grabbed hold of the tablecloth and began to back away, pulling it. Wineglasses and two plates of food tumbled onto the floor.
“Lugs!” shouted Hamish, his face red with embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Priscilla. I’d better take him away. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
Hamish dragged Lugs back into the foyer, only to find himself surrounded by reporters. To all their questions, he said, “Call Detective Chief Inspector Blair at Strathbane,” and made his escape.
Once in the Land Rover, he sat there for a few moments, cursing Lugs and cursing his own bad temper. Lugs let out a pathetic little whimper, and Hamish patted the animal’s rough coat. “It wasnae your fault, laddie. But he shouldnae have laughed at me.”
¦
Hamish had set the alarm and woke early and roused Clarry. “I want you to go to the Currie sisters and take them through their story again. I mean, that pair are always peering through their net curtains at what’s going on. I’ll start with the fisherman. Blair’ll be here soon so we’d best get out and about. I gather you got out of being arrested. How?”
Clarry told him how and Hamish laughed and laughed. “Man, I’d have liked to see Blair’s face when you threatened him with the Race Relations Board. Now let’s get a move on.”
Hamish headed for the harbour. He saw Callum McSween, who said he was ready to start work. Hamish gave him the keys to the garbage truck. Callum walked off. Hamish saw Archie, sitting disconsolately on the harbour wall.
“Nowhere to drink?” asked Hamish, who knew the fisherman usually headed for the Lochdubh bar after a night’s work.
“That foreigner bought it over,” said Archie, “and he iss going to turn it into the gift shop. So I’m stuck out here in the open where the wife can find me.”
“Archie, you didn’t like Fergus much, did you?”
“No, that I didn’t, and nobody else did either. We didnae notice him much until he got that stupid uniform and started bossing us all around. But none of us would ha’ touched him, Hamish. You know that.”
“Any gossip? Anyone see him around?”
“Well, there was one odd thing. One person seemed to like him.”
“And who was that?”
“Josie Darling.”
“Her? She’s getting all ready for her wedding.”
“Aye, she’s taken time off work, too.”
Hamish thought hard. Josie was young and frivolous. She lived with her mother in a cottage up a lane at the back of the new hotel. “I’ll go and see her.”
He walked towards Josie’s cottage, glancing up at the sky. It was a milky blue but there was a dampness in the breeze on his cheek. Rain coming soon, he thought.
He turned over in his mind what he knew about Josie. She worked in a bank in Strathbane and was engaged to someone from Inverness. Her father was dead. Her mother worked as a maid at the Tommel Castle Hotel. She planned to live in Inverness after her marriage. A big wedding was to be held in the Church of Scotland in Lochdubh, and, as was the tradition at Highland weddings, the whole village was going. The wedding was to be in two weeks’ time.
He knocked on the cottage door and then turned around and surveyed the view while he waited for someone to answer it. Down on the waterfront, he could see the white-overalled figure of Callum McSween working busily. He turned back as the door opened.
Josie stood there. She was a small girl with dyed blonde hair and a pug face. She had large, rather protruding eyes. She was wearing a short skirt which displayed fat legs to disadvantage and a low-cut blouse. Those eyes goggled when she saw Hamish.
“What is it?” she asked harshly.
“Can I come in?”
She backed away reluctantly. He followed her into the living room. On a coffee table were many glossy magazines,
“Getting ready for the wedding?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, that. I’m not having it in Lochdubh.”
“Why not? Everyone’s been looking forward to it.”
“Murdo wants to have it in Inverness.”
“Murdo being your fiance?”
“Yes.”
“I thought the wedding was usually held in the bride’s parish.”
“Yes, but I’ve only got Mother. Murdo’s got loads of relatives, so we thought it would be more reasonable to have it in Inverness. Anyway, I’m sick of this place.”
“Lochdubh?”
“Where else?”
“Why?”
“It’s so provincial,” said Josie.
Hamish privately thought that Josie was hardly the picture of sophistication.
“Anyway,” said Josie, “is that why you came? To ask about the wedding?”
“No, it’s about Fergus.”
“The dustman? What about him?”
“I believe you were friendly with him.”
“Och, no. I just gave the wee man a cup of tea from time to time. That way he took all our rubbish.”
“Did you like him?”
Again that sort of false grande dame air. “He was just a dustman. I sometimes chat to the postman as well.”
“So is there anything you can tell me about him? Did he look frightened about anything? Did he say anyone was out to get him?”
“No, he just said they were all bastards, and he hated them. He didn’t say whether anyone hated him.”
“Well, if you remember anything, let me know.”
Hamish said good-bye. But as he walked down from the cottage, he thought, she’s lying. There’s something there. I’ll let her think she’s safe, and then I’ll go back. I’ll try Mrs. Darling up at the hotel.
He went to the police station to collect the Land Rover and was confronted by a raging Detective Chief Inspector Blair. He pointed to a torn trouser leg. “Look what your dog did!” he shouted.
“Did you just walk into the station?” asked Hamish.
“Yes!”
“Well, there you are. Lugs is a guard dog.”
“You’ll pay for this.” Blair was in a foul temper. Peter Daviot had called him in and had told him that Hamish had secured an excellent interview with the widow Macleod, much better than anything Jimmy Anderson had got out of her. Blair had gone in to see him with the full intention of asking that Hamish Macbeth be kept off the case.
