He would put the whole Skag experience behind him. He would probably never hear anything about any of them again.
¦
The following February, Hamish came indoors from shovelling snow away from the police station path to hear the phone in the office ringing.
Hoping he would not have to go out in such filthy weather to deal with some crime, he answered it. To his surprise, it was the editor of the Worcester newspaper he had phoned the summer before for information about Andrew.
“I wondered whether you were still working on that case,” said the editor.
“Och, no, that was solved and over last summer,” said Hamish, thinking not for the first time that it always came as a bit of a jolt to realize that what appeared world-shattering in the far north of Scotland did not even cause a ripple in the south of England.
“Oh, well, it was just that a bit of news about that Andrew Biggar arrived on my desk.”
“What’s that?”
“He’s getting married.”
“Oh, well, that was on the cards…to Doris Harris.”
“You know? Wait a bit. That wasn’t the name. Where is the damn thing?” There was the sound of an impatient rustling of papers.
“Here it is. No, he’s marrying someone called Tracey Fink. Still, it’s no use to you now.”
“No, no use now,” said Hamish slowly. He thanked the editor and replaced the phone.
It had all been for nothing. Two murders committed so that Romeo and Juliet in the form of Andrew and Doris could enjoy the great love they had for each other. Gentleman Andrew and slaggy Tracey. They would need a board with subtitles at the wedding so that the English guests could make out what she was saying, he thought cynically. What on earth had happened?
Probably the middle-aged Andrew had found it delightful to act as Pygmalion to the coarse Tracey, the young Tracey, while timid Doris became a bore.
Perhaps what had sparked the love between Doris and Andrew had been the secrecy of their meetings. The minute the way lay clear to marriage, he might have begun to find her irritating.
What a waste of life, and all in the name of love!
I hope there is an afterlife, thought Hamish savagely, and I hope, Miss Gunnery, you’re seeing and hearing everything.
He poured himself a glass of whisky from a drawer in his desk. This year, he should go on holiday somewhere or another. But he would probably stay in Lochdubh and go fishing.
The world outside was a wicked place.
