Death of a Hussy

∨ Death of a Hussy ∧

3

Experience is the name everyone gives to their mistakes.

—OSCAR WILDE

The bell at the front door of the police station rang. Hamish sighed and put down the book he was reading. No one in the village ever rang the front doorbell. They always came to the kitchen door. The ring at the front usually meant some sort of official visit.

He was not in uniform, but it was ten o’clock at night and he had every reason to be off duty. He paused for a moment, wondering whether to answer it. Memories of Strathbane were still sharp in his mind. What if that dreadful policewoman had decided to press charges for assault?

The bell went again. He had a superstitious feeling he should not answer it. The wind howled outside. Giving himself a shake, he went slowly to the front of the police station and opened the door.

Alison Kerr stood there, blinking up at him owlishly in the blue light from the police lamp over the door.

“Come in,” said Hamish. “It’s a dreadful night. What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” said Alison as he closed the door behind her. “I just wanted to ask you a favour.”

“Then come through to the kitchen and I’ll make us a cup’ of tea. My! You’re soaked through. Give me your coat.”

He helped Alison out of her wet raincoat and then ushered her into the long narrow kitchen at the back of the house.

Alison sat down at the table and took off her glasses and wiped the raindrops from them with the edge of her skirt. The kitchen was warm and cheerful and Hamish, in a checked shirt and corduroys, reassuringly nonofficial.

“Now,” said Hamish, “what’s all this about?”

Alison clutched the mug of tea in both hands. “Maggie’s gone,” she said. “She says she will be away a few months and…” – Alison braced herself for the lie to come – “she says she doesn’t mind if I leam to drive and my test is in three weeks’ time and there isn’t an instructor in Lochdubh and I don’t know anyone and I wondered if you would…could…possibly…and…”

She fell silent and a large tear rolled down her nose and plopped on the table.

“You want me to teach you how to drive,” said Hamish amiably. “Och, I see no reason why not. You do have a provisional license, do you not?”

“Yes,” said Alison shakily. “I’ve had it quite a long time. You see, Mr. Macbeth, I’ve always wanted to drive and…and…Maggie said she wouldn’t let me touch the car but she relented just before she left.”

“Where has she gone?” asked Hamish while all the time he was thinking, Mrs. Baird never gave this wee lassie permission to use the car. She’s lying. But then I am not supposed to know that.

“She’s gone to have herself done up,” said Alison, and then blushed furiously. “I mean, she’s going to become beautiful again, she says.”

“There must be a gentleman in the picture.”

“No…no…I don’t think so. I think she just decided to take herself in hand. But about the driving. When can we start? I’ve only got three weeks.”

“Well, things here are awry quiet unless someone starts inventing crimes again. What about coming around here at six tomorrow evening?”

“But it’s such a long way and I can’t drive,” bleated Alison.

“Oh, I forgot. I’ll drive out then – at six.”

“Thank you,” said Alison. “I’m sorry I’m so emotional about it all. But you see, it’s my first step towards independence. I mean, I used to be awfully confident and brave before I got cancer.”

And in that heady moment, Alison believed what she had just said, forgetting the years of rabbitlike scurrying to work as secretary to the boss of a small firm which manufactured electrical components. She had been bored out of her skull but had never had the courage to hand in her notice. The factory had been on a failing industrial estate on the outskirts of Bristol, a wasteland of crumbling buildings and old beds, tyres, armchairs, and cookers, as the townspeople used it as a dump.

Hamish watched her sympathetically, reflecting that Maggie was probably the present villain in Alison’s life. Timid people always had to have a villain around to maintain some shreds of self-respect. They always thought, If he or she, the husband or mother, or whoever, weren’t around, then we would become successful and bold and glamorous, and when the bullies were removed from the scene by divorce or death, the rabbits immediately set out on their quests to find replacements.

“It’s so beautiful up here,” Alison was saying. “I feel in my bones that I am really a Highlander.”

“It’s quiet for a lady like yourself used to town life,” commented Hamish, pouring more tea.

“Oh, things always happen to me,” said Alison airily. “Adventure seems to follow me around.”

The wind tore at the house and Hamish repressed a shudder. He was already regretting his generous impulse to give Alison driving lessons. He as uneasy about the whole thing, and it was not because he knew Alison was lying.

“What’s the driving test like?” asked Alison.

“Well, it’s not so bad here as in the towns,” said Hamish. “There are no roundabouts or traffic lights. But they’re very strict for all that. I don’t want to depress you, but the failure rate in the British driving test is fifty-three percent. You have to train your mind to pass as well as concentrating on your driving ability. Stop worrying too much about the test and work instead at becoming a skilled driver. At the test, before you even get in the car, before you can even slide behind the wheel, you must be able to read a car number plate at a distance of sixty-seven feet. So make sure your glasses are up to the mark. Then after your test, you will be given an oral exam on the Highway Code. Have you got a copy?”

“Oh, yes,” said Alison. She sighed. “I wish I were more experienced.” She cast a sudden flirtatious look at Hamish and blushed and blew her nose on a rather grubby handkerchief to cover her confusion.

“I’d better be running you back,” said Hamish.

“That’s very kind of you.” Alison got to her feet and gazed up adoringly into Hamish’s hazel eyes, but the policeman’s eyes were a polite blank and he seemed to have retreated to somewhere inside of himself. Alison felt exactly as if she had made a bold pass and been ruthlessly snubbed.

It’s all the fault of that Priscilla, thought Alison, she doesn’t want him for herself and yet she won’t let him go. By the time Hamish drove up to the bungalow – his police Land Rover having been returned to him by Strathbane headquarters – Alison had turned Priscilla in her mind into a scheming harpy.

“Won’t you come in for a cup of coffee?” she asked.

“No, I’d best be getting home,” replied Hamish. “See you tomorrow.”

He smiled and Alison suddenly felt elated and light-hearted.

“You asked who to teach ye to drive?” Mrs. Todd had been in the act of whipping up a bowl of batter when Alison told her on the following day about the proposed driving lessons. She stood with her mouth slightly open, the wire whisk posed over the bowl. No modern electrical methods for Mrs. Todd.

“I asked Hamish Macbeth and he agreed. I mean the local bobby is surely the best – ”

“Him!” Mrs. Todd put down bowl and spoon. “Let me tell you that man is a womaniser. The things I’ve heard! He’s lazy and incompetent and useless. Why, when my man died, he came around, poking his nose into everything.”

“But…but…I mean, the village loves him,” wailed Alison. “You saw the reception.”

“Aye, and a waste o’ tune and money.” Mrs. Todd was a formidable figure even in her early seventies; her hair was still brown and her back ramrod straight. Her eyes narrowed suddenly. “Are you sure Mrs. Baird gave ye permission to take that car of hers out?”

“Yes,” said Alison in a shrill voice. “And now I had better get back to typing out Mrs. Baird’s autobiography.”

“I’d like to read that,” said Mrs. Todd, momentarily diverted. “She’s a fine lady and has travelled a lot.”

“You can ask her for a look at it when she gets back,” said Alison, wondering what on earth Mrs. Todd would think of Maggie’s explicitly described sexual adventures.

But Alison did not type that day; she read and reread the Highway Code, occasionally looking up at the clock to check the time and to will it to pass more quickly.

Promptly at six o’clock, Hamish drew up in the police Land Rover. To Alison’s relief, Mrs. Todd had left for the day.

Alison had already opened the garage doors. Hamish stood looking at the Renault. “It’s a grand wee car,” he said. “But I think before the test, we’d better let Ian down at the garage have a look at it. If there’s anything at all up with your car, they won’t even let you start the test. Are you ready? Get in the driving seat. You’ll be starting right away.”

Alison climbed in and Hamish doubled his lanky length into the passenger seat beside her.

“Now,” he said, “check that your seat is the right distance from the pedals and that you don’t have to stretch. And then check your driving mirrors.”

Alison shuffled about, jerking the car seat up too far forward and then sending it flying too far back in her excitement. Hamish got out again and took two Learner plates out of the Land Rover and fixed them to the front and back windows of the Renault.

He climbed in again and then began to instruct Alison how to move off. “Mirror, signal, then manoeuvre,” he said. “You turn your head and take a quick look back before you move off. Just imagine you’re out on a busy road. Turn on the engine, put the gear into first, release the clutch slowly to the biting point, that is until you feel the car surge forward a bit, and then release the handbrake.”

Alison stalled several times. How could she ever get the coordination right? Driving was an unnatural act.

“I think we’ll change places for a bit,” said Hamish, “and I’ll take ye out on the road. Hardly anyone about at this time of night.”

He patiently explained everything all over again once they were out on the road while Alison, once more in the driver’s seat, prayed to the God in whom she did not believe to send her wisdom.

And then suddenly she was moving slowly along the cliff road while Hamish’s patient voice told her when to change gear – and then she was driving, the headlamps cutting a magic path through the night. Hamish decided to let her drive straight along for as long as possible to give her confidence. It was too early to teach her how to reverse or park. Alison, maintaining a nervous 30 mph, felt she was flying as free as the wind.

At last Hamish suggested gently that he turn the car and take her home.

To Alison, Hamish Macbeth had become a godlike figure. She was so grateful to him and so shy of him at the same time, she could hardly stammer out an offer of coffee. But Hamish Macbeth was cautious and old–fashioned and knew enough about village gossip to realise that even in this isolated spot, someone would somehow find out he had gone into the house with Miss Alison Kerr and so he refused.

He was surprised the following night to find a much more confident Alison, but Alison explained she had been driving up and down the short driveway all day. And then just as she was cruising along the cliff road, the engine began to cough and then died completely. “It’s Maggie, that old bitch,” shouted Alison. “She’s been mistreating this car for years.”

“Now, now,” said Hamish soothingly. “I’ll just hae a look under the bonnet.”

Alison waited in an agony of suspense while he raised the bonnet and examined the engine under the light of a powerful torch.

He came back shaking his head. “Ian’ll need to hae a look at it,” he said. “Wait here and I’ll walk back and get the Land Rover and we’ll tow it down to Lochdubh. Have you any money?”

“I’ve been collecting my dole money,” said Alison, “and I’ve quite a bit.”

“Fine. Repairs are expensive, although I’ll have a word wi’ Ian. He owes me a few favours.”

Ian Chisholm, the garage owner-cum-repairman, was not pleased at having to work after hours, and grumbled at the filthy state of the engine. “I’ll dae ma best,” he said at last. “But it’ll cost ye. The points need cleaning and while ye’re at it, it needs a new clutch plate.”

“A wee word with you, Ian,” said Hamish, leading him away from Alison.

Alison waited anxiously while the two men put their heads together.

Then they shook hands and Ian came back with a false sort of smile on his monkey face. “Aye, weel, Miss Kerr, it seems it won’t cost that much. Hamish’ll pick up yer car the morrow.”

Later that night, Hamish got out his fishing tackle and set off in the driving rain to poach a salmon, praying that the water bailiffs wouldn’t catch him. The salmon was in part payment for the car repairs. He did not get home until three in the morning. He put an eighteen-pound salmon on the kitchen table and went thankfully to bed after giving Towser a good rubdown, for the dog had accompanied him on his poaching expedition.

Damn Alison Kerr, was his last waking thought, that lassie fair gives me the creeps.

♦

Colonel Halburton-Smythe rustled his morning paper and looked over it at his daughter’s calm face. She was reading letters that had arrived for her in that morning’s post.

“Looks as if we’re about to have a marriage in Loch-dubh,” said the colonel.

“Mmm?” said Priscilla absently.

“Yes, that friend of yours, that Hamish Macbeth, has been courting Mrs. Baird’s niece, or we all hope that’s what he’s been doing. He’s been up at the bungalow every night.”

“Oh, yes,” said Priscilla absently. “Nice for him,” and she continued to read her letters.

The colonel gave her bent head a pleased smile. He had been wrong. His daughter quite obviously had no romantic interest in that lazy village copper.

What on earth is Hamish playing at? thought Priscilla furiously, he can surely do better than get tied up with that little drip. He’s probably sorry for her. Typical Hamish! He’ll probably end up tied down for life to some dowdy female just because he’s sorry for her. She picked up her letters and walked slowly from the room. She had called at the police station several evenings in a row but Hamish had always been out.

She looked at the clock. Ten in the morning. She was due to leave for London at the weekend. She’d better find out what Hamish was thinking about, fooling around with Alison Kerr.

She drove down to the police station, but although the Land Rover was parked outside, there was no sign of Hamish. She peered in the living room window. Towser was stretched out on the sofa, his eyes closed.

Now, if I were Hamish, thought Priscilla, where would I be at this time in the morning without dog or car? She stood for a moment. Small flakes of snow were beginning to fall. Her face cleared. He was probably at the Lochdubh Hotel, mooching coffee.

And that is exactly where she did run Hamish to earth. He was sitting in the manager’s office, a mug of steaming coffee in his hands.

He rose in pleased surprise as Priscilla walked in. “I thought you would be back in London,” said Hamish.

“Not till the weekend,” said Priscilla. “Morning, Mr. Johnson. I just wanted a quick word with Hamish.”

“I’ve got to get back to work,” said the hotel manager.

“Be my guest, Miss Halburton-Smythe. Help yourself to coffee.”

“No, not here,” said Priscilla.

“Is it police business?” asked Hamish anxiously.

“Something like that.”

They walked together to the police station, Priscilla refusing to discuss what was bothering her until they were both indoors.

“It’s like this,” she said, not looking at him. “I’ve been hearing tales that you are courting Alison Kerr.”

He studied her averted face and a flash of malice appeared in his eyes. “I had tae get interested in someone sometime,” he said softly.

“Just so long as you’re really interested in her and not just sorry for her,” said Priscilla.

“Well, that iss verra kind of you, Miss Halburton-Smythe. I am glad I haff your blessing. Alison is all for a white wedding and I suppose I’ll just half to go along with it.”

Priscilla sat down at the table. Towser put his heavy head on her lap and she absent-mindedly stroked his ears.

Her face was quite expressionless. Hamish looked at her thoughtfully and remembered the days when he would have given his back teeth for some sign of jealousy from Priscilla. He was glad he was not in love with her anymore, but he valued her friendship, he told himself, and even dressed as she was that morning in tweed skirt and blouse with an old oilskin coat thrown over them, she looked very beautiful. Her bright hair almost hid her face as she bent over the dog.

He sighed and sat down at the table next to her. “I am pulling your leg, Priscilla,” he said. “Alison has been getting driving lessons from me. That lassie’s obsessed with driving. She eats, sleeps, and drinks driving. I’m pretty sure that aunt of hers never gave her permission to use the car, but that’s her problem.”

“I suppose she’s an interesting girl?” remarked Priscilla slowly.

“Meaning that someone as plain as that must have something going for her? Shame on you, Priscilla.”

“I didn’t mean that at all,” said Priscilla, raising her head at last.

“She must be in her thirties but away from the driving wheel, she’s scared o’ her own shadow,” said Hamish. “I wish I’d never agreed to teach her. She clings to me, like a limpet, emotionally, I mean. I can feel her sticky presence even when she isn’t here. She’s got a crush on me…for the moment. She’s a walking parasite on the perpetual lookout for a host.”

“Hamish!” exclaimed Priscilla, torn between relief that he was still heart free and amazement at his unexpected cruelty.

“I sound awful, don’t I? But there’s something unhealthy about her. I feel like swatting her with a fly swatter. It’s not that she physically clings to me – she mentally clings and even when she’s not about, I can feel that sticky mind of hers fantasizing about me.”

“Really, Hamish Macbeth, are you not getting a little bit carried away? Your vanity might be prompting you into thinking she fancies you.”

“Perhaps,” said Hamish with a disarming smile. “Now when I’m interested, really interested in a lassie, I wouldnae know if she had a fancy for me or not unless she threw herself into my arms.”

But you are no longer interested in me, thought Priscilla, rather bleakly. Aloud, she said, "Where"s Maggie Baird gone?"

“I think she’s gone to get herself beautified. Think it possible?”

“Hard to imagine,” said Priscilla. “Is there some fellow about? Is that what caused the attack at the party? Did she see some old lover in the crowd? There were a few guests from England at the Lochdubh Hotel who joined in the festivities.”

“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Hamish, stretching out his long legs. “I think she saw nobody but herself.”

“Oh, Hamish, no one finds their own appearance such a shock.”

“Not people like you. But just imagine if she had let herself go to seed but carried around in her head the image of what she used to be like. And then suddenly she saw herself in all her glory.”

“Could be. I remember a fashion buyer at a store in London saying that because most of their customers were middle-aged and plump, they decided to use plump middle-aged models. It was a disaster. The buyer said she found out that when a woman buys a gown she’s seen on a young and pretty model, she sees herself a little bit as that model. Interesting psychology. I’d better be going.”

“Are you driving down to London?”

“No, only to Inverness. There’s too much fog on the motorways at this time of year. I get the train at eight in the morning. When is Alison’s driving test?”

“Time’s passed quickly. It’s this Friday morning.”

“Well, good luck with your pupil. Bye, Hamish. See you in the summer.”

“Bye.” He kissed her cheek and for a moment she felt his face, unexpectedly smooth, against her own. She gave a little ducking motion of her head and turned and left the police station.

The day of Alison’s driving test dawned sunny and fair, with a white frost rapidly melting from the roads and heath-land. The sea loch sparkled and shimmered with light and the little eighteenth-century cottages strung out along the waterfront looked neat and picturesque. The distorted giant shapes of the Two Sisters, the mountains which dominated the village, were covered with snow. The air was redolent with the smells of a West Highland village – wood smoke, fish, tar, and strong tea.

As Hamish drove Alison into the village, he saw the examiner standing outside the hotel and muttered, “Oh, dear.”

“What did you say?” demanded Alison sharply.

“Nothing,” lied Hamish. But he had recognised the examiner, nicknamed The Beast of Strathbane, Frank Smeedon. But better not tell Alison that. Smeedon had been off work for some months and his replacement had been a kindly, cheery man. Poor Alison, thought Hamish bleakly.

“Now just keep calm and do your best,” he told Alison.

He could not bear to watch the start of the test but strolled off along the waterfront. Alison would be away for half an hour. He went into the Lochdubh Hotel and into the manager’s office.

“You’ve got a face like a fiddle,” said Mr. Johnson.

“I’ve just dropped Alison off for her driving test and the examiner is Smeedon.”

“Oh, my, my, she hasnae a hope in hell,” said Mr. Johnson. “That man hates wee lassies.”

“It’s her own fault for looking like a waif,” muttered Hamish. “She’s in her thirties. Why is he such a woman hater? He’s married, isn’t he?”

“Aye, he’s not only married, he’s got a bint on the side.”

“Neffer!” exclaimed Hamish. “Who?”

“D’ye ken that driving school in Strathbane, Harrison’s? Well, there’s a secretary there, a little blond tart. He’s old enough tae be her father.”

“What’s her name?”

“Maisie MacCallum.”

“And does Mrs. Smeedon know about this?”

“No, she’s an auld battleaxe, and she’d kill him if she ever found out. Coffee, Hamish?”

“No, it’s a grand day. Think I’ll chust stretch my legs. In fact, I haff neffer seen a better day.”

Mr. Johnson, like Priscilla, had known Hamish long enough to recognise the danger signals in the sudden sibi-lancy of Hamish’s Highland accent.

“Hey!” said Mr. Johnson in alarm. “What I told you about Smeedon is in confidence!”

But Hamish had gone.

Alison was meanwhile feeling calm and confident. She had driven correctly along one-track roads, she had reversed competently and performed a three-point turn with exact precision. She sat in the car and correctly answered all Mr. Smeedon’s questions on the Highway Code. When he snapped his notebook shut and picked up his clipboard, she smiled at him, waiting for the tremendous news that she had passed.

“Well, ye’ve failed,” said the examiner.

Alison’s world came tumbling about her ears. Failure again. “What did I do wrong?” she asked in a shaky voice.

“Not allowed to tell ye,” he said smugly.

“But that’s not true! All that’s been changed. I read in the paper that examiners – ” began Alison desperately. There was a rap at the window on the driving instructor’s side. Smeedon looked up and saw Hamish Macbeth.

“Good day to ye, Miss Kerr,” said Smeedon, opening the door and getting out. Alison laid her head on the steering wheel and wept.

“Good morning, Mr. Smeedon,” said Hamish lazily. “Spring won’t be far off and the thoughts of men will rum to love. But of course in your case, they’ve already turned.”

“Blethering idiot,” snapped Smeedon, beginning to stride towards his own car. Hamish put out a long arm and held Smeedon’s shoulder in a strong grip. “I’m not asking ye if Miss Kerr passed her test,” said Hamish, “for you were determined to fail her before she even got behind the wheel. Whit hae ye got against the lassies? I wonder what Maisie MacCallum would say if she knew what you were really like?”

Smeedon looked as if he had been struck by lightning. His face took on a grey tinge. Like quite a lot of first-time philanderers, he was convinced his doings were immune from the probings of prying eyes.

“You wouldnae dare,” he breathed.

“I’m a verra kindly man,” said Hamish, “but I hate injustice and that Alison Kerr is a champion driver – everything exactly by the book. Now if I thought you’d failed her out o’ spite, there’s no knowing what I’d do. They’ve been complaints about ye before but always from failed drivers and it was probably put down to disappointment on their part. But what if a policeman were to add his voice to the complaints? And what if that self-same policeman were a verra moral fellow and decided Mrs. Smeedon ought to know what you were up to…?”

“I passed Miss Kerr,” said Smeedon desperately.

“You told her?”

“Aye, well I was thinking of something else and made a wee mistake.”

“Just you stand there and write out that she’s passed and that’ll be an end o’ the matter,” said Hamish.

The examiner rapidly scribbled out a form that stated that Alison Kerr had passed her driving test. Hamish twitched it out of his fingers. “Now off with you,” he said sternly.

“You’ll not…?”

“No, I won’t be saying a word to Mrs. Smeedon,” said Hamish, but, as the examiner scurried to his car, he added softly, “but that complaint about you failing people out o’ spite is going in just the same.”

He went over to the Renault, opened the door, and slid into the passenger seat.

“Here,” he said, holding out Alison’s pass form, “dry your eyes wi’ this.”

Alison took it blindly and then blinked down at it through her thick glasses. She stared at it. Then she scrubbed her eyes under her glasses with her sopping handkerchief and looked again.

“But he said I’d failed.”

“We all make mistakes,” said Hamish comfortably. “He’s put it right.”

Alison flung her arms around him and pressed a damp kiss against his cheek. “You did this,” she said in a choked voice. “You made him do it.”

“Now, now,” said Hamish, pulling free and resisting a strong temptation to wipe his cheek with the back of his hand. “Never mind who did or said what. You’re free to drive on your own.”

Alison looked at him shyly. “It’s nearly lunch time,” she said, “and I booked a table for us at the hotel…you know, for a celebration lunch. My little surprise.”

“That’s very nice,” said Hamish, “but I am on duty.”

“But Hamish!” Alison had dreamt about this lunch since she first thought of the idea.

Hamish opened the door and got out. How sweet the air outside was! It was as if Alison had been wearing a cloying sticky perfume although she never wore scent. “Take yourself for a drive and enjoy yourself,” said Hamish, bending down and looking in at her. “Oh, and get a photocopy of that form and then send it off to the DVLC and you should get your licence back through the post in a couple of weeks’ time.” And before Alison could say any more, Hamish closed the car door and strolled off.

It was as well for Hamish that Alison was more obsessed with driving than she was with him or she would have chased after him. She sat rather bleakly, watching him in the driving mirror. Then she looked again at that pass form and a slow glow of sheer happiness spread through her body. She was free! She could drive anywhere she liked. The sun was sparkling and the road in front of her curved along the waterfront, over a humpbacked bridge and up the hill out of Lochdubh.

She switched on the engine and moved off. A car hooted and swept past her and the driver shouted something out of the window. She slammed on the brakes and sat shaking. She had forgotten to signal. She had even forgotten to check her mirrors or look around.

She tried to move off again, but the car would not budge. She switched the engine off again and covered her face with her hands. Think! Then she slowly removed her hands from her face and looked down at the handbrake. She had forgotten to release it.

There was no Hamish beside her now to prompt her.

She squared her shoulders, switched on the engine again, moved into first gear, checked her mirrors, signalled, took a quick look over her shoulder and moved off slowly. By the time she had reached the top of the road leading out of Lochdubh, she had to pull onto the side of the road to flex her hands which had pins and needles caused by her terrified grip on the wheel.

“This will never do,” she said aloud.

She started off again. The road was quiet. No cars behind her and none coming the other way. Slowly, she increased her speed until she was bowling along, her hands relaxed on the wheel, but only dimly aware of the stupendous majesty of the Sutherland mountains soaring on either side of the road. She drove on and on, down past the Kyles of Sutherland and the towns of Bonar Bridge and Ardgay and then up the famous Struie Pass – famous for being a motorist’s nightmare – but Alison did not know that and put her fear down to her own inexperience. The road climbed and climbed, seeming almost perpendicular and then she was running along the pass through the top of the mountains and finally down and down the twisting hairpin bends towards the Cromarty Firth which lay sparkling and glinting in the pale sunlight.

Alison came to a roundabout. A road went on over a mile-long bridge towards Inverness. On the other side of the roundabout lay the road to Dingwall. Dingwall sounded like a smaller town and therefore one with manageable traffic. She went round the roundabout and realised as she took the Dingwall road that she had forgotten to signal. All her nervousness returned.

She parked in one of the tiny town’s surprisingly many car parks, choosing a space well away from other cars and spending a quite twenty minutes reversing the Renault into a space that could comfortably have held three trucks.

She carefully locked up and went down to the main street to look at the shops. She stopped by a phone box and, on impulse, went in and phoned the police station in Lochdubh. There was no reply. Then Alison noticed the light was fading fast. She had a long way to drive back. She headed back towards the car park, feeling in her pocket for the car keys.

Where the keys should have been was a large hole.

Alison stopped dead. She felt sick. She retraced her steps, scanning the ground. But Dingwall should receive an award for being the cleanest town in Britain – they vacuum the streets. There wasn’t even a scrap of paper.

She stopped someone and asked directions to the police station.

The police station was not at all like Hamish’s cosy village quarters. It was a large modern building with a plaque on the wall stating that the foundation stone had been laid by Princess Alexandria. She pushed open the door and went in.

A fey-looking girl was standing at the reception desk, chain-smoking.

“My keys,” Alison blurted out. “I’ve lost my car keys.”

“We’ve got them,” said the girl, lighting a fresh cigarette off the stub of the old one. “Just been handed in.” And then she stood looking at Alison through the curling cigarette smoke.

“Oh, that’s wonderftil.” Alison felt limp with relief. “I’ll just take them.”

“You can’t get them till Monday,” replied the girl.

“Monday! This is Friday afternoon. Monday!”

“You see that door behind me?” The girl indicated a door behind her and a little to the right which was like a house door with a large letter box. “Well, the found stuff gets put through that letter box where it falls down to the bottom of a wire cage on the other side. The person who has the key to the door has gone off for a long weekend.”

“But someone else must have the key,” said Alison, her voice taking on the shrill note of the coward trying to be assertive.

“No,” said the Highland maiden patiently. “Only one person has the key! You see,” she went on with mad logic, “if anything goes missing, we’ve only the one person to blame.”

Alison’s lips trembled. “I want my keys.”

“I’ll see if the sergeant can do anything.” The girl stubbed out her cigarette and disappeared. After a few moments, the sergeant came back with her. Again Alison told her story and again heard the tale of the one person with the key.

“But I live in Lochdubh. I must get home.” Alison was becoming terrified. What if Maggie should phone or, even worse, turn up in person?

“Now, now, we’ll do our best.” He called into the back of the police station and another policeman, seemingly of more senior rank, appeared.

“Och, I think we can help you,” he said, and then as Alison watched, he took off his tunic and rolled up his sleeves. The sergeant produced a wire coat hanger which he proceeded to unravel, and then both policemen began to fish down the letter box, rather like schoolboys fishing down a drain and with as many chuckles, and “a wee but mair tae yer right, Frank,” and other jolly words of encouragement.

After half an hour – the Highland police force has endless patience – the door to the police station opened and a young man rushed in. He had hair en brosse, a gold earring, and a desperate expression on his face. He tried to get attention but failed because the policemen were too busy fishing.

Control yourself, said Alison’s inner voice. It’s not the end of the world. It’s only car keys. This poor man looks as if he’s here to report a murder. Aloud, she said to the young man. “Ring the bell on the wall.”

He did and the sergeant turned reluctantly from the letter box. “What do you want?”

“Can I use your toilet?” asked the young man.

“Sure. Through there.”

“This is madness!” howled Alison. “Look, give me the address of whoever has the key and I will take a taxi there and pick it up.”

“It’s twenty miles out on the Black Isle.”

“I don’t care,” said Alison, tears of frustration standing out in her eyes.

“Och, you English are always that impatient,” said the sergeant with a grin. “But we’ve got things in hand. We’ve sent out for a magnet.”

The girl of the reception and the cigarettes had returned. “A magnet!” said Alison. The girl avoided her eyes and pretended to read some papers.

Another half-hour passed by while night fell outside and Alison tried not to scream at the forces of law and order and then suddenly a cheer went up. “Got ‘em!”

“There you are,” said the sergeant. “There was nothing for you to get upset about, now was there?”

But ungrateful Alison simply snatched the keys out of his hand and ran out without a word of thanks.

Her face tense under the glare of the sodium street lights, she walked back through the deserted streets to the car park. Dingwall, like most Highland towns, had closed down for the night. No one will believe this, she thought, it’s cloud cuckoo land.

She got into the car, switched on the lights, and began the long drive home. Night driving was misery to Alison. Approaching headlamps seemed to draw her like a moth and she kept having to twitch the wheel nervously to make sure she kept to the correct side of the road. By the time she finally parked in Lochdubh and got out of the car, her legs were trembling and she was afraid she would fall.

She rang the police station bell but Hamish had seen her coming and was lying down behind his living room sofa, waiting for her to go away.

Sadly, Alison went home. It had been a nightmare. Driving was a nightmare. She would never get back behind the wheel again.

But no sooner had she managed to park the car neatly in the garage than she found herself already restless for a new day, a day that would contain her two favourite obsessions – driving and Hamish Macbeth.

♦

Priscilla climbed aboard the Highland Chieftain, the train which was to take her from Inverness to London. Outside the snow had begun to fall and inside, the air conditioning was blasting away. She had complained before about the freezing temperature on British Rail trains and so knew she had no chance of getting any heat. She wondered savagely if the anti-pollution campaigners had thought of doing anything about British Rail. The employees, reflected Priscilla, were so bloody rude that most people preferred to drive and pollute the air rather than go by train. It was rather like entering a Kafkaesque state where ordinary laws, rules, and courtesies did not apply. The motto of British Rail should be “Sod the Public,” thought Priscilla, standing up to get down a travelling case and find an extra sweater.

She sat down again and looked out of the window and there, strolling along the platform, came Hamish Macbeth. She waved to him and he climbed aboard the train and handed her a travelling rug. “Thought you might be cold,” he said.

“Oh, Hamish, how sweet of you!” Priscilla put the rug over her knees. “Did you come all this way just to see me off?”

“Och, no, I haff the police business in Inverness.”

“And what police business do you have that the Inverness police cannot cope with?”

“It’s a secret,” said Hamish stiffly. “Have a good trip and I will be seeing you in the summer.”

He turned about and marched off the train.

I’ve offended him, thought Priscilla miserably, of course he wouldn’t come just to see me off but even if he did, I shouldn’t have said so. Then she noticed the travelling rug was thickly covered in dog hairs and it also smelt of dog. Poor Towser. Priscilla stroked the blanket. I hope he doesn’t miss his rug too much.

Hamish walked angrily out of the station. What on earth had made him drive all the way to Inverness just to say goodbye to Priscilla? The fact was, he suddenly thought, stopping dead in his tracks and oblivious to curious stares, he missed being in love with her. He had only been hoping to stir up a few embers. And imagine giving away poor old Towser’s favourite rug.

“Better buy the smelly mongrel a new one,” he said aloud, “or he’ll be mad at me for weeks.”

He looked down and found a small middle-aged woman looking up at him curiously.

“Can I help you, madam?” he demanded, awfully.

The woman sniffed and then said, “I’m thinking ye could do wi’ a bit o’ help yersel’, laddie, staunin’ there mumbling.”

Hamish walked on, pink with irritation.

Damn all women!