gamekeeper, saw him heading off down towards Lairg.”
¦
Hamish Macbeth returned to the police station that evening feeling happy and relaxed. He had enjoyed a pleasant day. He had guided Betty round all the local beauty spots. She had really endeared herself to him when it transpired that she had brought along food for the dog and cat as well. Hamish did not know it was Clarry, the hotel chef and a friend of his, who had thoughtfully added the food in two packets, one labelled Lugs and the other Sonsie.
He looked forward to seeing Betty again. He checked his messages. No crime. It was going to be a great summer.
¦
Effie, the next day, began to fret about Priscilla. Jock had taken her for dinner. Effie was anxious to impress upon women in general and Priscilla in particular that Jock was her property.
Her obsession was at boiling point. Nothing was going to stand in her way. She got into her car and drove down to Strathbane to a shop which sold second-hand rings. She bought herself a diamond engagement ring. Such was her obsession when she drove back that she could almost believe that Jock had given it to her.
But they would laugh about it after they were married.
Effie knew that there was to be a sale of work by the Mothers’ Union at the church the next day. That would be a good place to start.
And that was to be the day when Hamish Macbeth’s peaceful summer came to an abrupt end.
¦
The first call Hamish got the following morning was to tell him to get over to Braikie, where a gunman was holding people hostage in the Highland and Sutherland Bank.
The bane of his life, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, snarled down the phone. “Just you secure the area. A team of us are on the way, and we’ve got a proper hostage negotiator.”
Villagers turned and stared as the police Land Rover sped off through the village with the blue light flashing and the siren blaring.
Hamish arrived in the main street of Braikie. A woman was standing crying, surrounded by a group of people. “She just got oot o’ there in time,” said one man.
Hamish went up to her. “Tell me what happened,” he asked.
She gulped and said, “I work there as a teller. I was late for the morning shift because my bairn wasn’t feeling well. I had to wait to get someone to look after her. I opened the door of the bank, saw a gunman and people lying on the floor, and backed out. It’s awful!”
Hamish took her name and address. “Is there a back door to the bank?”
“Aye, it’s got a little kitchen where we make the morning coffee.”
“Don’t any of you move,” said Hamish, “and make sure everyone keeps clear of the bank until reinforcements arrive.”
Hamish found himself getting very angry indeed. A bank robbery! In the Highlands! And on his beat!
He went to his Land Rover and took out a small tool kit. He went round and surveyed the back door. There was a glass pane on it, but the pane was protected by heavy metal bars. The door hinges were on the outside, however. He took out a screwdriver and a can of oil. He squirted oil on the hinges and got to work with the screwdriver, working furiously until he was able to lift the door off its hinges. There was an alarm above the door, but it didn’t go off. Probably hadn’t been serviced in years, he thought.
He took off his boots and went in quietly in his stockinged feet. He gently opened the door that led into the main floor of the small bank. A terrified girl was stuffing banknotes into a sack while a man on the other side of the counter held a sawn-off shotgun on her.
It was an old·fashioned bank. There was no bulletproof glass screen between the teller and the customer, only a mahogany counter which sloped up to the teller and down on the teller’s side.
Hamish took out his telescopic truncheon, sprang across the floor, and vaulted over the counter, driving his feet straight into the gunman’s chest. The gunman fell backwards, and the shotgun went off, blasting a hole in the ceiling.
Hamish smashed the truncheon down on the arm holding the shotgun.
“You’ve broke my arm,” screamed the gunman.
Hamish flipped him over and handcuffed him. Then he wrenched off the balaclava hiding the man’s face. It was a face he didn’t recognise, and he was glad of that. He had been afraid it might be one of the locals and had not liked to think that one of them had decided to go in for bank robbery.
From outside the bank, Blair’s unlovely Glaswegian voice sounded through a loudhailer. “You are surrounded. You cannot escape. Come out with your hands up.”
The townspeople were now crowded behind police barriers.
The door of the bank opened, and Hamish Macbeth appeared, pushing the handcuffed gunman in front of him.
A great cheer went up from the crowd.
Blair’s face darkened in anger. A local cameraman was busy taking pictures. Police took the gunman off to a waiting police van.
The bank manager, looking white and shaken, came out in time to hear Blair raging at Hamish, “You should have waited. I have a trained negotiator here.”
The bank manager, Mr. Queen, said crossly, “If it hadn’t been for Hamish, some of us might have been killed. There’ll be a reward for you, Hamish.”
A policeman came up and said, “There’s a call from Mrs. Sutherland’s store in Cnothan. She’s caught a shoplifter.”
Blair’s face cleared. Here was a way to get the triumphant Macbeth off the scene before any more press arrived.
“That’s your beat,” he said. “Hop to it.”
“What about my statement?” asked Hamish.
“You can send it in later. Off you go.”
And so Hamish headed off to Cnothan, unaware of the fuss and gossip Effie was causing at the sale of work.
? Death of a Dreamer ?
3
—George Linley
The members of the Mothers’ Union were inclined to snub Effie, each one feeling she might have offered to help the cause by putting some of her own work up for sale.
Effie, complete with garish make-up, cruised the stalls, picking up things and putting them back. Then as she stopped in front of Mrs. Wellington’s stall, which was full of all the unsuccessful junk recycled from the last sale, she picked up a horrible green vase. A shaft of sunlight struck down through the grimy windows and sparkled on the diamond ring on her engagement finger.
“Is that an engagement ring?” boomed Mrs. Wellington.
The chatter in the hall suddenly died.
“Indeed it is,” said Effie with a smile.
“And who is the lucky fellow?”
“Jock Fleming,” said Effie triumphantly.
All the women crowded around her as Effie beamed in triumph. In that heady moment, she was sure Jock had actually bought her the ring.
“When did he pop the question?” asked Angela.
“Just before he left.”
