“There’s really nothing we can do until he gets in touch,” said Hamish. “Order something and have some wine. I’m getting this.”
Willie came to take their orders. “I saw Miss Halburton-Smythe today,” he said. “Herself was looking as beautiful as ever.”
“Take the orders and go away, Willie,” snapped Hamish.
“Everyone seems to mind everyone else’s business around here,” said Betty after doey had ordered. She glanced out of the window. “It looks as if rain is coming…Oh, my God. This is all Jock needs!”
“What?”
“I’ve just seen his ex-wife walking past.”
“What’s she doing here?”
“He’s probably behind with the alimony as usual and she’s hunting him down. Right little harpy.”
“When did he get divorced?”
“Two years ago.”
“Children?”
“Two. A boy and a girl.”
“How old are they?”
“The boy, Callum, is six, and Shona, the girl, five.”
“Why did the marriage break up?”
“I don’t really know. Can we talk about something else? I’ve had enough of Jock and his problems for one evening.”
¦
The next day, Hamish was in Patel’s general store when he saw Angela. Behind a stack of cans of baked beans – Lochdubh’s favourite food – he said to her in a low voice, “There’s a further complication. Effie is saying she’s pregnant.”
The Currie sisters, on the other side of the stack of baked beans, clutched each other. Then, forgetting their shopping, they hurried out to spread the news around the village about Effie’s pregnancy.
¦
The villagers warmed to Effie. Poor wee lassie. Getting knocked up like that. Of course, she was a bit old to be having a baby, but look at old Mrs. McClutcheon. She had got pregnant with her last when she was fifty! And so the gossip ran round and round.
Effie did experience moments of sheer dread on the odd occasions when reality returned. But Jock had said he would marry her, she thought, stubbornly rephrasing his last goodbye.
But as the rain continued to hammer down on the corrugated iron roof of her cottage until she thought the sound of it would drive her mad, she learned from Mrs. Wellington, who had called to bring her some scones, that Jock’s ex-wife was in the village waiting for him.
“What’s she like?” asked Effie.
“Small, blonde, and beautiful,” said the ministers wife. “I wouldn’t worry about it. Jock was obviously looking for quality of character this time round.” And with that backhanded compliment, she took her leave.
Jealousy like bile rose up in Effie. Jock was hers, and she was going to keep him.
¦
And then two days later, Jock Fleming came back bringing the good weather with him. Hamish saw him sitting at his easel on the waterfront and went to talk to him.
“Same old view?” commented Hamish.
“Different angle,” said Jock.
“So are you going to marry Effie?”
“Don’t be daft. I’ll go and see her and sort that one out. She’s mad.”
“I’m glad that’s over,” said Hamish. “Have you seen your ex-wife?”
“Dora? Yes, she’s staying at Sea View as well.”
“That doesn’t bother you?”
“No, we get on all right.”
“Why did the marriage break up?”
“Hamish, run along. You’re as nosy as the rest of them.”
Hamish touched his cap and moved off. In that moment, he was sorry for Effie, probably sitting in her cottage with the ruin of her dreams tumbling about her ears. He thought of calling on her, but the lazy warm days were back and he had promised to go for a drive soon with Betty.
¦
Hamish drove back to the police station two evenings later, happy and contented. He thought Betty was splendid company, and deep down he enjoyed the fact that Priscilla knew of his friendship with the agent.
He fed Sonsie and Lugs and took them out for a walk up the fields at the back of the station.
Detective Inspector Jimmy Anderson phoned to give Hamish a date for when the bank robber would be appearing at the sheriff’s court. “He’s got a list of offences as long as your arm,” said Jimmy. “Name’s Hugh McFarlane, all the way from Glasgow.”
When Hamish rang off, it was to find Mrs. Wellington waiting for him. “I’ve been up to Effie’s cottage,” she said. “The door was unlocked, and I walked in when she didn’t answer. No sign of her. Her car is there.”
“She probably went for a walk,” said Hamish.
“Do me a favour. Go up there and just check the place out. It isn’t like the old days, you know. Nobody goes out any more and leaves their door unlocked.”
¦
Hamish took his cat and his dog with him. Although he was beginning to think that Effie was slightly mad, he thought that Mrs. Wellington was being over-fussy.
He went up to the cottage, opened the door, and called, “Effie!”
Silence.
He stepped inside. The main room was dark and deserted. Putting a handkerchief over his hand, he switched on the light. The first thing he noticed was that the room had been scrubbed clean. He sniffed the air. There was a strong smell of cleaning fluid. He searched the kitchen and then went into the bedroom. The bed was made up, and Effie’s clothes were in the wardrobe. On the bedside table was a framed photograph of Jock at his easel. Hamish took out a pair of latex gloves, put them on, and picked up the photograph. It looked like an amateur snapshot that had been enlarged. It was signed, “To my darling Effie. Jock.”
Hamish replaced the photograph.
Perhaps Jock had been lying, and he really had proposed to Effie and was now trying to pretend it never happened.
The rain that had left Lochdubh alone for a few days had come back in force, and Hamish heard it hammering on the roof. How could she bear that noise?
He went out to the Land Rover, where Lugs and Sonsie were patiently waiting, took his oilskin out of the back, put it on, and began to search around the heathery fields outside the cottage, calling, “Effie!” from time to time.
He went back into the cottage to see if there was any clue he had missed. This time he saw an obvious one. At the side of the armchair by the fireplace was a handbag. Still wearing his gloves, he opened it up. Effie’s wallet and change purse were there along with her door keys and car keys.
Now what to do? he wondered. If he reported her missing and started a full-scale and expensive search and she just came wandering back, he would look silly. He got back into the Land Rover to wait. The wind rose, and the rain became even heavier, lashing against the windscreen, great gusts rocking the vehicle.
At last, he decided something was really wrong and drove back to the police station. He phoned headquarters and asked for permission to call out the Mountain Rescue Patrol.
He was told to phone again in the morning, and if there was still no sighting of her, then the patrol would be alerted.
He fed himself and his animals and then phoned the minister and told him the situation and asked him to ring the church bell first thing in the morning. This would get the villagers gathered in the church hall, and he could organise a search party.
