Epilogue


Everything has an end.

—Proverbs


Lochdubh returned to its usual torpor. It was as if nothing terrible had ever happened. It had taken Hamish a long time to relax. Sometimes he watched real-life television forensic programmes and in one, the killer was identified by one of his own cat’s hairs. He had nightmares of them finding one of Sonsie’s hairs on the clothes of the dead man and identifying it as belonging to a wild cat; Blair would then make sure the police station was under scrutiny.

He had scrubbed the floor and the walls with bleach but he knew that luminol would betray the scrubbing and might even find a spot of blood he had missed.

But as ordinary lazy day followed another ordinary day, he began to relax. He called on Milly one day and found her weeding in the garden. “I’m going to have a bed of roses here,” she said.

“Aye, well you’d better get a hedge to protect them because the wind could destroy them. Where’s Tam?”

“Working.”

“When’s the wedding?”

Milly stabbed the trowel into the earth. “We haven’t decided yet.”

A car drove up in front of the house and a tall woman got out. “Oh, that’s my therapist,” said Milly.

“I didn’t know they made house calls.”

“We’ve become friends and she likes getting out of Strathbane. I met her through Victim Support.”

“I’ll be off, then. Let me know when the happy day’s going to be.”

That evening, Tam appeared and said, “I thought it would be nice if we went to that new restaurant down in Strathbane.”

“Must we?” said Milly. “I’ve got a nice lamb casserole in the oven.”

“Put it in the fridge. We’ll have it tomorrow.”

“All right. I’ll just get my coat.”

“Hey, where’s that pretty blue dress I bought you? Put it on.”

Milly went up to her bedroom and pulled the dress out of the wardrobe. She hated it. She felt the neck was too low and the skirt was too short. She sat down on the bed and stared bleakly into space. She had been married in her late teens. She had never really lived alone. Recently, Tam had been away a lot on stories. Milly had loved the peace of having days to herself. She glared at the dress. Henry had always told her what to wear. She had given all her clothes away to the Salvation Army and had bought herself comfortable clothes that she wanted.

Her therapist, Christina Balfour, had told her to start being her own woman, but, reflected Milly, after a lifetime of taking orders, it was hard to know where to start.

She slowly put the dress back in the wardrobe and took out one in simple black wool that she had chosen for herself. She put it on along with low-heeled patent-leather pumps and a thin string of pearls. Then she picked up a bottle of pink nail varnish from the dressing table, opened it, and dribbled some of it down the front of the dress Tam had chosen for her before going downstairs.

“Where’s my dress?” asked Tam. “You look as if you’re going to a funeral.”

“I’m so sorry. I spilled nail varnish on it.”

“Never mind. I’ll get you something else. Time you smartened yourself up.”

Journalists of Tam’s breed talk shop… endlessly. It had happened shortly after they became re-engaged. When they were out for an evening, he drank far too much and told endless reporting stories, unaware that it was a monologue and that Milly was sitting quietly on the other side of the table.

He also had begun to expect Milly to only drink one glass of wine so that she could drive him back.

She looked at him sadly. What had happened to the diffident, affectionate Tam? He had never drunk this much before in her company. Towards the end of the meal, his mobile phone rang. He answered it and then said, “I’m sorry, Milly. Big story. A raid down at the docks. Can you drop me back at the office and I’ll get a photographer to drive me.”

Milly paid the bill. That was another thing that had gone wrong. Tam had begun to leave the paying of bills in restaurants to her.

The raid turned out to be a false alarm, so Tam and the photographer dropped in at a pub that was open twenty-four hours for a drinking session.

Tam had been elevated to chief reporter because of his coverage of the Prosser case.

“When’s the wedding?” asked the photographer.

“Don’t know,” said Tam. “You know, I’m wondering if I’m daein’ the right thing.”

“Och, everyone knows you’re daft about the woman.”

“She doesnae seem to ’preciate that I’m a hot-shot reporter. She pretends to listen but she aye looks as if she’s thinking o’ something else. What dae ye think o’ Kylie Ross?”

“The newsroom secretary? Come on, laddie. She’s in her twenties and a knockout. She wouldnae look at you.”

“Thash where you’re wrong, buddy. She gave me that look the ither day.”

“What look?”

“Sort of come hisher.”

“Come hither? Tam, you’ve had enough. I’ll take you home.”

“Take me to ma flat.”

Milly had phoned Christina Balfour as soon as she had got back to Drim. “I can’t go through with this marriage,” she wailed.

“Then you must tell him,” said Christina. “You can’t go on being a rabbit.”

“What did you just say?”

“I should not have said that,” said Christina hurriedly. “But if you are going to have your freedom, you must take a stand. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Milly took a deep breath. “I don’t think I need any more therapy. Thank you and good night.” She hung up. The phone rang a few moments later but she pulled the connection out of the wall.

She opened the front door and looked down towards the village. It was a Saturday night, and a ceilidh was on in the village hall. Ailsa and the others would be there. She put on her coat. She had not seen much of the village women of late, because they always asked her excitedly about the wedding.

The music had fallen silent and one of the villagers was reciting a long poem. Ailsa saw Milly standing in the doorway and hurried to meet her.

“Come and join the fun,” she said. “Where’s Tam?”

“Step outside,” said Milly. “I need your advice.”

The next day, Tam awoke with a blinding hangover. He took two Alka-Seltzer, struggled into his clothes, swallowed a glass of whisky, and then made his way to the office.

Kylie the secretary smiled at him. She was a pretty highland beauty with dark hair and creamy skin. Fuelled by that glass of whisky which had topped up his intake from the night before, Tam said, “How’s about you and me stepping out one evening?”

Kylie smiled patiently. “I have a boyfriend, Tam.”

Tam stumped off. The photographer from the night before had watched his approach to Kylie. “How did you get on?” he asked.

Tam shrugged and gave the time immemorial reply of the rejected reporter. “Ach, I think thon one’s a lesbian.”

Ailsa and Milly were at that moment in the police station in Lochdubh facing a bewildered Hamish Macbeth.

“You want me to tell Tam the wedding’s off?” exclaimed Hamish.

“Well, haven’t you heard o’ community policing?” demanded Ailsa. “It’s your duty.”

Hamish stared at them. Then he took out his notebook and wrote down, “Tam, it’s Milly. I don’t want to marry you and I’m going to pack up your stuff and leave it outside the door. We’re not suited. I am very sorry but I don’t want to see you again.”

Hamish handed Milly his mobile phone and the piece of paper. “Phone Tam and tell him that,” he ordered.

“I can’t!” wailed Milly.

“I’ll do it,” said Ailsa.

“Nobody’s going to do anything except Milly. Go on, Milly. Soften it down a bit if you must. Here!” He poured her a large glass of whisky. “Get that down ye.”

“What about me?” demanded Ailsa.

“You’ll get your dram if your friend here stiffens her spine and makes that call.”

Milly gulped down the whisky.

She slowly took the phone from Hamish. “Do you mind leaving me?”

“Leave yourself,” said Hamish callously. “It’s my home. Step outside the door.”

The cat, sensing Milly’s fear, gave a low warning hiss. “You shouldnae have a wild cat,” said Ailsa. “That beast’ll attack someone someday.”

“Mind your own business!” shouted Hamish, and Ailsa stared at the normally mild police sergeant in amazement.

They could hear Milly’s quiet voice as she stood outside the kitchen door, but they could not hear what she was saying.

At last she came in. “It’s finished.”

“How did he take it?” asked Ailsa.

“Very well. He said he was made for a better woman. He said he had been going to break it off anyway. I won’t leave his stuff outside the door. That’s rude. I’ll need to face him.”

“Good for you,” said Hamish. “You’ve got your independence at last.”

“How’s Angela Brodie?” asked Ailsa.

“Just fine,” said Hamish. “She had a taste o’ fame and didn’t like it one bit.”

But Angela at that moment had just arrived in Inverness for the Highland Literary Festival to be held in the Dancing Scotsman Hotel. She felt this was one opportunity she could not let go by because she was to be interviewed by Malvin Clegg, the literary critic of the BBC. She’d had her wispy hair permed, but it had turned out frizzy. Her new dress was bright red which, when she had tried it on, had seemed to drain colour from her face, so she had applied make-up with an inexpert hand.

But wishful thinking and her bedroom mirror, which was in a dark corner, had persuaded her that she looked sophisticated and much younger.

A platform had been set up in a conference room of the hotel along with seating for a hundred people. As the television cameras were going to film the event, all the seats were taken. There was a green room set aside for authors. Angela had hoped to meet Malvin there and get an idea of what questions he was going to ask but was told she would meet him for the first time on the platform.

She walked onto the platform to a spattering of applause. Malvin appeared from the other end of the platform to enthusiastic applause and sat down facing her. He was a small thickset man with a fake-bake tan and dyed black hair.

The master of ceremonies was the hotel manager, dressed in kilt and full regalia. He made a long speech, boasting about the beauty of the hotel and how the literary festival had been his inspiration. He had a high reedy voice and a thin body. A kilt is a very heavy item of dress and his began to slide south, showing a glimpse of white underpants decorated with naked ladies. The audience began to giggle and he hoisted the kilt up again and then decided to leave the stage after a hurried introduction of Malvin and Angela.

Malvin was in a bad mood. Why had he agreed to attend this hick festival? He had read Angela’s book and found it very sexy and had hopes of a fling with the author but his hopes had died the minute he set eyes on Angela.

He began with his first question. “Do you think you are writing literature?”

“I just write what I can,” said Angela.

“I’ll just read out this scene from your book where the heroine is in bed with the local bobby.” He made it sound salacious, and Angela squirmed.

“Now, what we all want to know,” said Malvin, leering at the audience, “is how you did your research.”

“It is all a product of my imagination.”

“But all fiction is autobiographical in some way.”

“Not in this case,” said Angela.

“Let me read another extract.”

Angela cracked. She had seen her appearance in a mirror in the green room but it had been too late to do anything about it. She got to her feet.

“It is my opinion that you are nothing more than a dirty old man,” announced Angela, and she walked from the stage.

She ran out of the hotel to the car park and drove off. Never again, she thought, will I have anything to do with publicity. But on the road home her mobile rang. She stopped in a lay-by and answered it. Her husband’s frantic voice sounded down the line. “What have you been up to? The press are hammering at the door saying you called Malvin Clegg a dirty old man.”

“I’ll hide out somewhere,” said Angela.

“What about me? And they won’t go away unless you give them something, even if it’s no comment.

“I’ll come home,” said Angela wearily.

The aborted interview was shown on all the TV news stations. Malvin could not sue Angela because she had said that it was her opinion. In Edinburgh, her publisher rubbed his hands in glee and went off to order a large reprint.

Angela, with a scarf tied over her frizzy hair and her make-up scrubbed off, faced the press on her doorstep. “I am sorry,” she said. “I have nothing to say.”

Hamish Macbeth cleared a path for her through the shouting reporters, and she thankfully escaped inside her house.

Afterwards, Hamish wished he had let her fight her own way into her house as his photo appeared in some newspapers along with descriptions of Angela’s heroine having an affair with the village policeman.

When Tam arrived that evening to pick up his belongings, Ailsa was there with Jock Kennedy and several other men from the village. He asked to speak to Milly but was told she was resting and to take his stuff and leave. As he drove away, Tam began to wonder if he’d not gone a little mad. He and Milly had enjoyed something special and he had ruined it. He wondered if he had subconsciously destroyed it because he had always avoided commitment. And why had he started to drink so much when he took her out for an evening?

He shook his head sadly. At least there was always work to take his mind off her.

By dint of thieving passports, Sandra Prosser had made her way to Jensen Beach in Florida. She rented a small flat in a condominium full of old people. After a week, she was bored. The money would not last forever. She did not have the courage to try to open a bank account and get money transferred from the Cayman Islands and also because she had a shrewd suspicion that her husband would have cleared out that account. She hired a car and drove down into the pretty town of Stuart, looking at the shops, and wondering for the first time if it would not be easier to just give herself up.

She missed her husband. She had not cried when she had learned of his death, but now she remembered the good times they had enjoyed, the expensive trips abroad, and the generous allowance he had given her.

Sandra went into a bar, sat up on a bar stool, and ordered a vodka and tonic. “How much?” she asked the barman.

“The gentleman over there wishes to pay for it.”

Sandra swung round. A man dressed in expensively casual clothes raised his glass to her. Sandra picked up her own glass and went to join him.

“I’m Vic Faziola,” he said. “You’re new here, aren’t you?”

“Visiting for a bit,” said Sandra. He was about her own age with thick brown hair greying at the temples. He had a sallow face and small black eyes. “What does one do around here?”

“People go swimming or surfing. I own this tavern so it keeps me busy. You English?”

“Yes.”

“What brings you to Florida?”

“Just a holiday. I thought some sun would be nice.”

“Why don’t you meet me here at eight this evening and I’ll take you for dinner. I like getting to know the visitors.”

Sandra went back to her flat, feeling happy. It was nice to know she still had pulling power. But the afternoon stretched out ahead. She decided to go swimming and then find a hairdresser.

She put her swimsuit on under a blouse and jeans, stuffed underwear into a bag, drove back to Stuart, and headed for the beach.

Great glassy waves curled onto the beach. The sun beat down. It was very hot. Sandra had left her wallet and the bag with the dwindling money in her flat.

She left her clothes on the beach and plunged into the water. She was a powerful swimmer. With steady strokes, she headed out to sea and then turned on her back and floated, dreaming that her new companion would turn out to be her escape from looming poverty.

A log floated past and scraped her arm. Sandra cursed and decided to head for shore. She turned on her front. As she raised her head, she saw the figure of a lifeguard shouting something through a loud-hailer, but the wind had risen and she could not hear what he was saying. Probably a storm coming. She raised her head again. Now he was running towards the water, pointing frantically.

Maybe a boat was coming up on her. She twisted her head around and that’s when she saw it—a dorsal fin cutting through the waves in her direction. Sandra began to swim as hard as she could. But she was too late.

Great teeth plunged into her leg. She let out a scream of pure terror. Then she disappeared under the waves and a red stain spread out over the blue water.

It took a long time to recover the bits of Sandra from the sea and put them together with a woman who was missing from the condominium. Her flat was searched and several stolen passports recovered. Then it was wondered how she had managed to pass through passport controls at airports, where she would get fingerprint and retina scrutiny. But Sandra had driven to Mexico, picking out-of-the-way border controls, and once she was in Mexico had bribed a trucker to take her across the border into the States.

From fingerprints found in her flat, Interpol identified her at last as the missing Sandra Prosser.

Hamish Macbeth had to read about it in the newspapers, angry that neither Jimmy nor anyone at Strathbane had taken the trouble to tell him. Normally lazy and unambitious, and usually glad of a chance to go fishing, he nonetheless could not shake off his irritation. He finally drove to Strathbane and ran Jimmy to earth in the detective’s favourite pub.

“Why didn’t you tell me Sandra Prosser had been found?” demanded Hamish.

Jimmy grinned. “You mean, what was left of her? A fitting end. She lived with a shark and got killed by one.”

“So why didn’t you tell me?”

“Stop glaring at me. I’ve been right busy. I somehow thought you’d hear. Sorry. Have a real drink.”

“I’m driving,” said Hamish huffily.

“Well, now you’re here, I’ll give you the latest horror story in the Prosser saga. Someone in Jensen Beach took a photo of her. Some woman taking a picture of her child but there’s a clear shot o’ Sandra in the background. They start backtracking through her travels. Found she had been staying in a hotel in Santiago and had spent the night with a young man called Jaime Gonzales, subsequently reported missing. He worked at a clothing firm. He handed in his notice the day after his fling with our Sandra—who had been trying to find him, and paid a girl at the hotel to interpret for her. Next thing, Jaime’s mother reports him missing. As they live in a shantytown, the police don’t care much. The interpreter said that Sandra was very angry. I think this Jaime stole money from her. The safe in the villa in Rio had been cleaned out. I think she caught up with him and killed him to get the money back. Of course, she must have been really tough to live with a psycho like Prosser.

“Cheer up, Hamish. It’s the final chapter. You can write The End and get back to poaching.”

Hamish decided to do just that. When he returned to the police station, he collected his rod and fishing tackle and, with the dog and cat at his heels, walked up over the moors until he came to the upper reaches of the River Anstey.

Keeping a careful eye out for the water bailiff, because the fishing rights belonged to Colonel Halburton-Smythe, he cast his fly on a glassy pool and felt, for the first time in ages, all the dark worry of the Prosser case fade away.

He broke off for a picnic lunch and had just opened a thermos flask when Sonsie gave a warning hiss but Lugs wagged his tail.

Hamish stood up and saw Elspeth Grant coming down the heathery slope towards him.

“You gave me a fright,” he said. “I thought you were the water bailiff. How did you find me?”

“Elementary, my dear Watson. It’s a fine day, the murders are over, and I remembered this was your favourite poaching site.”

They sat down together on a flat rock by the pool. “Coffee?” asked Hamish.

“Fine. Just black.”

“You look like your old self,” said Hamish. Elspeth’s hair was frizzy, and she was wearing an old sweater over a pair of jeans. “What brings you?”

“Just a holiday.”

“I would have thought they would have sent you back up on the Prosser case.”

“I didn’t want to risk anyone pinching my job as a news presenter so I got a new contract stating that that was my sole job. So, in future, everyone can murder everyone up here and you won’t see me. Tell me all about it.”

“Too fine a day,” said Hamish. “I want to forget it.”

Elspeth studied him with those silvery Gypsy eyes of hers. “Prosser evidently knew this territory like the back of his hand,” she said. “Funny him falling down that gully.”

“I don’t want to talk about it!” snapped Hamish, and in a milder voice, “Sandwich? It’s chicken.”

“Thanks. It won’t be one of your hens, anyway. You just let them die of old age. I’ll take you for dinner tonight. Don’t stand me up. Eight o’clock?”

“I’ll be there. I think maybe I’ll pack up. The fish don’t seem to be biting. I really ought to go over to Drim and see how Milly Davenport’s getting on.”

Milly had never lived in a house with a cesspool before. So when the sink and toilet started backing up, she phoned Ailsa for help. Ailsa gave her the number of a local man who would come and pump out the cesspool.

Three men with a truck with a big tank on the back arrived. “I mind the drain is somewhere ower here,” said the boss. He approached the flower bed where the money was buried. “Not there, surely,” shouted Milly.

“No, no, missus. Jist the ither side, covered in the gravel.” He scraped the gravel away and revealed an iron cover. He wrenched and turned and finally pulled the cover off. A fountain of excrement, fuelled by trapped gases, blasted into the air, spraying everyone with the worst kind of filth.

It poured down into the flower bed and Milly thought with dread of the case of money buried underneath.

When the gusher subsided, the boss, seemingly unfazed by the fact that he was covered in brown unmentionable, put the huge hose into the drain and then started a motor in the truck. Milly ran into the house and stripped off her clothes and had a shower. Then she dressed in clean clothes and went outside again.

The smell was awful. Amused villagers had gathered to watch. A cesspool clearance was regarded as a rare show. When the job was pronounced finished, Jock Kennedy and some of the men asked Milly if she had a hose.

“Yes,” said Milly. “There are some gardening things in a shed at the side there. What are you going to do?”

“We’ll chust be washing this muck off the garden.”

Milly thought frantically of the buried money. “Oh, don’t bother…,” she began, but Jock was already walking to the shed.

He came back with a long coil of hose. Not bothering to ask Milly’s permission, he went into the house and fed the hose from the kitchen tap round to the front of the house and began to drench the garden.

Finally Jock stopped and looked up at the black clouds streaming in from the west. “Storm’s coming, Milly,” he said cheerfully. “That’ll finish the job.”

To Milly’s dismay, Ailsa, who had joined the watchers, said cheerfully, “I think we could all do with a cup of tea.”

Milly felt she could not refuse. They would wonder why. Jock, Ailsa, and the villagers gathered in the kitchen. Milly made endless cups of tea and sliced cake. Outside the wind screamed and the rain flooded down.

After two hours, they left. Milly hurriedly donned a raincoat and rain hat and went out into the garden. The screaming gale lifted her hat from her head and sent it sailing off.

She went to the shed and took out a spade and began to dig. The excrement had sunk down into her new flower bed, and the smell was awful. She hoisted out the attaché case and carried it into the kitchen.

She laid it on the table and opened it. The notes inside were brown with the muck from the cesspool and soaking wet.

Milly found a ball of string and began to put lines of string across the kitchen. Then she began to gingerly sponge each note and pin it up to dry. She stoked up the Raeburn stove and returned to the long, long job of cleaning the banknotes.

Hamish Macbeth drove up to Milly’s house. He wrinkled his nose at the smell, which had never quite gone away. He knocked at the door. There was no answer, although he could see Milly’s car parked at the side of the house. He thought that she must be down in the village. But after so many scares and murders, he wondered if she was all right. He tried the door and found it unlocked.

Milly had heard the knock at the door but decided if she did not answer it, whoever it was would go away.

She was just pinning up a wet note when she sensed a presence behind her and turned round. Hamish Macbeth stood there.

“I see you’ve found the money,” he said.

“It’s my money,” said Milly shrilly.

“Oh, aye? And do you often wash it? I’ve heard of laundering money but this is the first time I’ve seen it actually done.”

“It’s mine,” said Milly desperately. “It was my husband’s and now it belongs to me.”

Hamish sat down slowly at the kitchen table. He took off his hat. If he put in a report, it would show that Milly had every intention of keeping the money. By the mess of it, it must have been buried in the garden. He had heard over in Lochdubh about the cesspool clearance. Prosser had been a criminal, and the money should be impounded.

Milly stood before him, tears running down her face. What an irritatingly weak woman, he thought savagely, realising for the first time how easy it would be to bully Milly. Blair, for one, would have a field day.

“How much?” he demanded.

“About seven hundred and fifty thousand,” whimpered Milly, “or it was when I first counted. I’ve used some of it.”

“And what do you plan to do with it?”

“I can stay on here. Spend it in the village.”

Hamish thought again of Blair and of the paperwork involved.

He stood up. “I’m off,” he said. “I neffer saw the damn money. Get it?”

Milly seized his hand. “Oh, thank you! Thank you!”

Hamish jerked his hand free and walked out of the kitchen.

When Hamish returned to the police station, he found the editor of the Highland Times waiting by the kitchen door.

“Now what?” asked Hamish. “I’ve had enough of murders and mayhem to last me a lifetime.”

“Nothing like that,” said Matthew. “It’s a bit o’ news that might interest you.”

“Come ben to the kitchen and let’s hear it.”

Matthew sat down at the table and took out some notes. “You remember that Prosser was conned over some gold mine.”

“Yes, it did seem daft. I kept wondering why he was conned.”

“Well, you know the price of gold is now sky-high?”

“Aye, I read about it.”

“You know where Tyndrum lies, over by the mountains that march eastward along Glen Cononish?”

“Yes.”

“It’s going to be Scotland’s first gold mine. Chris Sangster—he’s the chief executive of Scotgold and a mining engineer—says that each ton of rock is likely to yield up to ten grams of high-grade gold, worth around two hundred pounds. It was talked about before in the sixties when the British Geological Society found evidence of gold in the Western Highlands, but the price of gold was so low, nothing was done about it.

“They’re all excited over in Tyndrum. I mean Tyndrum is only a straggle of houses along the main road from Perth and Glasgow to Oban and there isn’t much employment. Scotgold expects approval from Loch Lomond and the Trossachs Planning Authority by early summer. So the conning captain might have been on to something.”

“Prosser’s papers have been checked. The geological survey was a forgery and put the gold over by Ben Nevis,” said Hamish. “If the captain had stuck to the straight-and-narrow path and invested in Scotgold, he might have made something.”

They sat talking and then Hamish cried, “Look at the time! I’m late.”

Without changing out of his uniform, he hurried along to the Italian restaurant. The storm had passed, and the night was clear and starry.

“I was about to leave,” said Elspeth coldly. “You smell awful. In fact, you thought so little about this date, you couldn’t even get out of your uniform and take a bath.”

“It’s like this,” said Hamish. “I was over at Milly’s and she was getting her cesspool cleaned. Then Matthew called with a story and I forgot the time.”

“You forgot the…?” Elspeth grabbed her handbag and marched out of the restaurant.

Hamish tried to rush after her but fell headfirst over his cat and dog who were stationed outside. Thanks to the huge cat flap on the kitchen door, they could come and go as they pleased. Hamish cursed as he got to his feet in time to hear Elspeth driving off in her car.

He wearily returned to his police station, wishing he were not such an indulgent owner and could nail that cat flap shut. Instead, he took off his uniform and bagged it up. He put on clean clothes and drove to an all-night laundrette in Strathbane where they had a coin-operated dry-cleaning machine. As he sat and waited, he reflected it was amazing how a smell in the air could permeate his clothes like that.

“Milly’s found that missing money,” said Ailsa to her husband two days later.

“Did she tell you?”

“Not her. But smell that. She bought groceries with this twenty-pound note.”

Jock smelled it and wrinkled his nose. “It smells of perfume and…”

“Shite!” said Ailsa. “The way I see it, she must have had it buried in the garden and all the money got soaked. Look how wrinkled the note is, as if it’s been in the water.”

“Are we going to tell anyone?”

“Of course not. She buys all her stuff in our shop. I’ll take her money, smelly or not!”

The next day, Hamish felt he should call on Elspeth. He had stood her up so many times that her anger was understandable.

He was about to go to Strathbane and buy a bunch of roses when the post arrived and, with it, his bank statement. He had gone into the red. With the statement came a letter from the bank manager asking him to do something about the overdraft.

He went along to the offices of the Highland Times, seized a paper, and looked at the local events. There was the Highland Games at Braikie in a week’s time. It was a big event, sponsored by a building society and a bank. The prize for the hill running event was five thousand pounds.

Hamish drove to Braikie and entered his name. Then he returned to Lochdubh and changed into shorts and T-shirt and began to run up over the moors to the slopes of the mountains.

Elspeth went into Patel’s to buy some midge repellent. “Aye, they’re bad the day,” said Mr. Patel. “What’s our Hamish up to?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Elspeth coldly, and the curiosity overcame her. “Why?”

Mr. Patel grinned. “The greater red-legged Hamish has been seen running through the village like the wind and then up into the mountains. He must be in training for the hill race at Braikie.”

Elspeth felt low. These days she was a celebrity. The only person who did not want her company seemed to be Hamish Macbeth. Of course, he had turned up at the restaurant but in such a state! And to think how carefully she had dressed.

Luckily for Hamish, there was no crime during the week of arduous training that he put in.

He was expected to police the games so, on the great day, he put on his uniform, put his running gear in a bag, nailed the cat flap shut because he knew if he took his pets they would try to run with him as they had when he was training, and set out for the games.

It was a fine day with only wisps of cloud across the blue sky. He was alarmed at the number of people who stopped him and said they had put money on him. Willie the gamekeeper was running a book and Hamish was tempted to arrest him for illegal gambling, frightened of all the money people would lose if he did not win, but he had never done such a thing before and decided to turn a blind eye.

At last, it was time for him to change and get to the starting line. As the pistol went off, he set off at an easy pace. Suddenly he did not care if he won or not. He was enjoying the beauty of the day and the exercise.

Up on the slopes of the moors, the Harris brothers rose from the heather and shouted, “Murderer! We’ll see you after the race.”

That night when he had pushed Prosser’s body up to the gully flashed into Hamish’s mind. If that evil pair had seen anything, then his career was over, not to mention his life in Lochdubh. Fuelled by a spurt of fury and anxious to get the race over and find out what they knew, he began to run like the wind.

When he approached the finishing line, he was deaf to the cheering crowd. He realised he had won. He looked around for the Harris brothers, but they were nowhere in sight. He changed back into his uniform and began to patrol the games again, stopping here and there to accept congratulations.

At the end of the day, he stood on the platform with the other prizewinners and accepted his cheque and a small silver cup.

As he finally stepped down from the platform, Ian Harris and Pete Harris suddenly appeared in front of him.

“You’ll chust cash that cheque on the Monday morning and gie us the cash,” said Ian, baring broken and blackened teeth in a grin.

“Come with me,” said Hamish. He walked quickly outside the field to his Land Rover.

“Now, why should I do that?” he demanded.

“We saw you, that nicht,” said Ian, “up at Fraser’s Gully, pushing thon dead man ower the edge.”

“Aye,” said Pete, “they’re didnae seem much point in mentioning it afore because everyone knows you havenae any money.”

Hamish surveyed them, his hazel eyes hard as agate. “So that’s where you keep your still,” he said.

They both looked at him in alarm.

“I’ve been looking for it. You murmur one word o’ this and I’ll be up there with a sledgehammer and I’ll smash the damn thing to pieces and then I might take it to you. And who’s going to believe you? A couple wi’ crime records or a policeman?”

There came a low snake-like hiss. Sonsie and Lugs were standing there. Sonsie’s eyes were blazing yellow.

“Get the cat away,” shouted Ian. “It’s the devil!”

“Are you going to be good?” asked Hamish.

“Oh, aye, aye, richt enough,” said Ian.

“Chust our wee joke,” said his brother. “We didnae see anything.”

They hurried off. Hamish looked down at his pets. “How did you get out?”

“I let them out.” Elspeth appeared from the other side of Hamish’s Land Rover. “They were making a noise, Sonsie howling and Lugs barking like mad. I let myself into the police station. You’d nailed the cat flap shut. They told me you were at the games so I brought them. Now, what were those villains talking about?”

“It’s a long story.”

“And it’s dinnertime,” said Elspeth. “You can buy me dinner and tell me about it.”

Stefan Loncar sat in a dismal cold room in Sofia in Bulgaria. He had been afraid that Prosser might have been waiting for him at the airport and so he had travelled overland, choosing Sofia as a good place to hide out. He had finally found some old British newspapers and learned of the death of Prosser and the arrest of the others. He was working as a dishwasher in a restaurant during the evenings. His pay was meagre and he could not afford any drugs apart from an occasional bit of cannabis. He sometimes wondered if he would not have been more comfortable in a British prison.

At dinner at the Italian restaurant, Hamish told her the whole story, knowing he could trust Elspeth.

When he had finished, Elspeth asked, with an odd look on her face, “Doesn’t that cat of yours ever frighten you?”

“Sonsie? No. Gentle as anything.”

“Do you believe people come back as animals?”

“That’s highland superstition!”

“I’ll tell you one thing, you nearly got married twice and I bet that damn animal from hell knew nothing was going to come of it. If you ever do fall in love, watch out, Hamish Macbeth!”

“You’re talking havers.”

“I know a jealous woman when I see one.”

“For heffen’s sakes, lassie. It’s a cat!”

“We’ll see,” said Elspeth. “We’ll see.”

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