Death of a Maid

∨ Death of a Maid ∧

10

He was amazed how so impotent and grovelling insect as I (these were his expressions) could entertain such inhuman ideas.

—Jonathan Swift

Crystal Barret-Wilkinson kicked Hamish’s body savagely with her foot. “Now I’ve got to figure out how to get rid of you,” she said aloud. “I can’t go on being lucky. I could hardly believe no one had seen me when I bashed that nosy researcher. God, I need a drink.”

She put down the gun and went to a side table laden with bottles.

Then she screamed as her arms were wrenched behind her back and handcuffed. Mary Cannon cautioned her for the murders of Mrs. Gillespie and Shona Fraser. She had already telephoned for reinforcements.

Hamish’s idea had been that Mary come in the back door of the house and stand listening as he tried to get a confession out of Crystal.

Now Hamish Macbeth was dead, and Inspector Gannon would have a hell of a lot of explaining to do.

She thrust Crystal down into a chair and stood over her. “Stay where you are, you murdering bitch, until reinforcements arrive.”

Crystal subsided meekly, and then suddenly her booted foot lashed out and caught Mary full in the stomach. Mary doubled over with pain and fell to her knees.

And then Crystal heard a movement. Harnish Macbeth was getting unsteadily to his feet. She let out a scream of pure terror and ran for the door.

Hamish followed in pursuit. Despite the Kevlar bulletproof vest he had been wearing – he had borrowed it from Inverness police headquarters while Mary was getting ready – the blow from the bullet had hurt like hell. He felt unsteady on his legs.

Crystal fled down the road and onto the beach. She cast one anguished look behind her and ran straight into the sea, her wrists still handcuffed. Tearing off his sweater and vest while he ran, Hamish ran into the water after her. A Sutherland gale was blowing and whipping spray from the white crests of the waves into his eyes.

He reached Crystal as she was plunging under the water and caught hold of her. She struggled and fought. He drew back his fist and socked her on the jaw and then dragged her unconscious body back to the shore.

Mary came running down the beach to join him. “Is she dead?”

“No, she’ll do,” said Hamish. “I had to knock her out.”

“How did you survive that shot? I thought you were dead.”

“I borrowed a bulletproof vest. But God, that shot made me feel sick.”

“We’ve a lot of explaining to do,” said Mary. “Them in Strathbane won’t like me poaching on their territory and making them look like fools.”

“They’ll have to live with it. I’ve got some dry clothes in the Land Rover,” said Hamish. “I’d better get them on.”

Crystal began to come round. A stream of filthy oaths emerged from her mouth.

“Here they come,” said Mary. She undipped her torch and flashed it.

Police cars screeched to a halt in front of the beach.

Blair was the first out. He came stumbling down the beach, his heavy face contorted with fury.

“What’s all this about?” he shouted. He confronted Mary. “And what are you doing on my patch?”

Fortunately he was followed by Superintendent Daviot. “Let me handle this,” he said. “Explain yourself, Inspector.”

Crystal was still letting out a stream of curses. “Take her into custody,” said Mary. “She is responsible for the deaths of Mrs. Gillespie and Shona Fraser, and we have all the proof you need. She also shot Macbeth, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest.”

Daviot gave instructions to police officers who had joined them, and Crystal, kicking and screaming, was dragged off towards the police cars. Jimmy Anderson now joined them.

“It’s like this,” said Mary, trying to remember the story she had rehearsed with Hamish. “I was checking security at Inverness airport when I saw Constable Macbeth getting off a Glasgow plane. He told me he had been to Glasgow to check on Mrs. Barret-Wilkinson’s alibi.”

Her calm, steady voice went on until Daviot had all the facts.

“What I want to know,” raged Blair when she finished, “is what this highland loon was doing going to Glasgow without permission?”

“You wouldn’t have given me permission,” said Hamish. “You would have said that her alibi had already been covered by Strathclyde police.”

“Let’s get off this beach,” said Daviot. “Good work, Hamish, and good work, Inspector.”

♦

Back at police headquarters, Hamish, after he had typed out his statement, said to Mary, “I’ll be off.”

“It’s your show. Don’t you want to sit in on the interrogation?”

“I’d rather leave it all to you, Inspector.”

Hamish drove happily back to Lochdubh. He felt as if a dark cloud of menace had been lifted from the whole Sutherland area.

He called at Angela’s and told her and her husband the whole story. “You’d better let me have a look at you,” said Dr. Brodie.

Hamish lifted up his sweater. “A nasty bruise, and it’ll look worse by tomorrow,” the doctor said. He prodded around. “No, no broken ribs. You’re a lucky man.”

“I know. If she’d shot higher or lower, I might not be here now.”

Hamish collected his dog and cat and drove the short distance to the police station.

Home, he thought. Safe home.

He cooked himself a meal of sausage and bacon, ignoring Lugs’s insistent paw on his knee and the yellow glare from Sonsie, sitting up on a kitchen chair opposite.

Then he undressed, washed, and fell into bed and straight into a long and dreamless sleep.

♦

A hammering on the kitchen door awoke him late the next morning. He struggled out of bed, put on his dressing gown, and went to answer it. A furious Elspeth stood there with Luke behind her.

“Why didn’t you phone me?” she shouted. “We’ve been to a press conference in Strathbane, and we’ve only got what all the other papers have. You’ve just used me as you’ve used me before as a sort of Watson. I never want to see you or speak to you again!”

She stormed off, deaf to Hamish’s apologies. Luke followed. He turned at one point and gave Hamish a mocking smile.

♦

Elspeth and Luke drove back to Strathbane to see if they could pick up any more information before driving to Styre to get the reaction from the few locals.

Luke then suggested they should go back into Strathbane and treat themselves to a slap-up meal at the Palace Hotel. They had cocktails and then a bottle of wine each to go with their lunch. Elspeth usually didn’t drink so much, but she wanted to drown out the pain of what she saw as Hamish Macbeth’s cynical and self-seeking behaviour.

Luke set himself out to be charming and amusing. He told Elspeth she was the most attractive woman he had ever met. Tipsy, and feeling happier, Elspeth reflected that Hamish had never said one nice word about her appearance. On the contrary, he usually criticised what she had on.

Over coffee and large brandies, Luke reached over the table and took her hand in his.

“We make a good team, Elspeth,” he said. He rose and got down on one knee beside her chair. Still holding her hand, he looked up into her face and said, “Beautiful Elspeth, light of my life, will you marry me?”

The other diners fell silent. Elspeth thought of her lonely flat back in Glasgow. She thought about how stupid she’d been to ever have fancied such as Hamish Macbeth.

“Yes,” she said.

The diners cheered. Luke rose and pulled her to her feet. “Let’s go and get the best ring Strathbane has to offer.”

♦

Unbeknownst to them, Hamish Macbeth had just left the main jewellers’ shop before they arrived, a sapphire and diamond ring in his pocket. He had at last decided that if marriage was what Elspeth wanted, then marriage was what she would get. As he drove back to Lochdubh, he conjured up happy pictures of Elspeth working in his kitchen with a small son at her heels.

But when he arrived at the Tommel Castle Hotel, there was no sign of Elspeth. He mooched around, getting more and more anxious as the day wore on, until Mr. Johnson invited him into his office. “Sit down and have a coffee. You can see the car park from the window.”

Hamish sat down. He took out the ring in its little red leather box and flicked the lid up and down until Mr. Johnson told him to stop it. “She’s out reporting, that’s all, Hamish.”

“Did I tell you why she was mad at me?”

“Only about a hundred times,” said Mr. Johnson, then hearing the sound of car wheels on the gravel outside, he added, “Someone’s arriving.”

Hamish went to the window, and Mr. Johnson joined him. Elspeth and Luke got out. They were both laughing at something. Then Luke took Elspeth in his arms and kissed her. She put her hands up to caress the back of his neck, and one last ray of bright sunlight sparkled on a large diamond ring on her finger.

Hamish made for the door, but the manager held him back.

“Leave it, Hamish. There’s nothing you can do now.”

♦

Back at the police station, Hamish found Inspector Mary Gannon waiting for him. “I’m off back to Inverness,” she said. “I dropped by to thank you. Blair’s in the doghouse again with Daviot for having decided the prof was the villain.”

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “Drink?”

“No, I’m driving.”

“Tea?”

“That would be grand.”

“The thing that amazed me,” said Hamish as he waited for the kettle to boil, “is the luck of the woman! I mean, if I walked down the waterfront here at two in the morning, at least five people would ask me the next day what I was doing at that time of night. No one saw her at the professor’s, yet when I park at the end of his street, the neighbours report me.”

“I think,” said Mary, “that if she hadn’t been such an amateur, we might have caught her. I know it sounds daft, but the chances she took! And nearly got away with it.”

“When’s the court case?”

“Sometime in February at the High Court in Edinburgh. You’ll be informed. You’ll need to be a witness for the prosecution. She got herself a top advocate – but too late, because, in a mad rage, she told us at the interview exactly how she had done the murders. I think her advocate will try for a plea of insanity. Scotland Yard are investigating that murder in the brothel that Bella talked about.”

“Crystal must have really craved respectability. Help yourself to milk and sugar. I’ve got biscuits somewhere. Did she confess to frightening Mrs. Samson to death after trying to set her house on fire?”

“Yes.”

“How did she know about the package that Mrs. Gillespie left for Mrs. Samson?”

“I love this one. Blair went to interview her some days after the fire, and they got very cosy. He told her about it. Of course, he’s denying the whole thing. No biscuits for me. Tea is fine. You’re a waste of a good detective, Macbeth.”

“Can you see me in Strathbane, taking orders from Blair?” asked Hamish. “I’m king and emperor of my own patch here. When things are quiet, it’s a grand life.”

“I know you must be feeling a certain amount of delayed shock,” said Mary, studying his face. “But you’ve got a miserable sort of haunted look in your eyes.”

Hamish found himself telling her all about how he had hoped to propose to Elspeth but had been pipped at the post by Luke.

“That’s bad. Had you known her long?”

“Yes, quite a bit.”

“Why didn’t you ask her before?”

“I think I was in love with someone else.”

She laughed. “You think? Let me tell you something. I think you were, or are, suffering from delayed shock. It’s not every day you nearly get killed. I think you wanted security. You’re a man. You wanted comforting sex. It wouldn’t surprise me if you’ve forgotten the whole thing by tomorrow.”

“I’ll never forget her,” said Hamish stubbornly, then, switching subjects, added, “I thought you were going to resign when the case was over.”

“I changed my mind. They’re a nice crowd in Inverness. I’ve bought you a present.”

“There was no need for that. What is it?”

“A joiner will call on you tomorrow and fix a cat flap in that door. It’ll be big enough for your dog as well. It comes with bolts so you can fasten it securely when the animals don’t need to use it.”

“That’s right kind of you.”

Mary finished her tea. “Call on me if you’re ever in Inverness.”

After Mary had left, Hamish walked along to Patel’s and bought himself some cold ham, liver for Lugs, and a fresh fish from the harbour for Sonsie. He fed the animals first and then added fried eggs to the cold ham for himself. He made a pot of tea and carried the lot into the living room. He set the tray on the floor, raked out the fire and lit it, switched on the television, and watched the news while he ate.

The arrest of Crystal had made the headlines. There was Daviot speaking at the press conference and giving all the praise to Inspector Cannon while Blair glowered in the background. Hamish was not mentioned, which, he thought, suited him fine.

The news was followed by a drama. He put his tray on the floor after he had finished eating and settled back to watch. Sonsie jumped on his lap, but he put the heavy cat down. “You’re a wild cat,” said Hamish. “Behave like one.”

Gradually his eyelids drooped, and he fell asleep.

He awoke with a start later. The fire had burnt down to red ash. The cat was back on his lap, and her weight had given him pins and needles in his legs. He rose and carried his tray of dishes through to the kitchen. He put the dishes in the sink, poured water on them, and left them to soak. Hamish thought the two best housekeeping excuses in the world were leaving the dishes to soak and the beds to air.

It was only when he was undressed and lying in bed that he realised he was not thinking of Elspeth. The whole business of wanting to propose to her seemed like a dream.

♦

A blessedly crime-free autumn moved into winter. A series of very hard frosts gripped the countryside. Quite often, Sutherland – the south land of the old Vikings – escapes the worst of the winter because of the proximity of the Gulf Stream. But as Christmas passed and the New Year dawned, a raging blizzard struck the Highlands. It came unexpectedly, for the day had started off fine and frosty.

Hamish was returning from Patel’s with a bag of groceries when he noticed a bank of black clouds looming up in the north. He walked to the wall and stared out over the loch. The air was very still, and yet those clouds advanced across the sky. The first flakes of snow soon began to fall, lacy flakes spiralling down and then upwards on the frosty air. The wind began to blow, and the snow thickened. Hypnotised, he watched the advance of the clouds as the wind blew harder. He could understand why, in the olden days, people thought the god Thor rode the gales with his army.

He turned and headed for the police station, dropped his groceries on the table, got bales of winter feed out of the shed, and set off up the hill to his small flock of sheep. He herded them into a shelter he had built the previous spring and watched them as they fed before he turned and hurried back through the yelling, screeching wind. Thor and his army had arrived over Lochdubh. The noise of the storm was deafening.

The cat flap banged, and Sonsie and then Lugs appeared. He got a towel and rubbed each of them down.

There was nothing he could do now but wait until the blizzard died down.

♦

The morning dawned sunny and frosty, but a gale was still blowing powdery snow off the tops of the drifts.

The snowplough passed the window of the police station, followed by a lorry spraying grit and salt.

Hamish had snow tyres on his Land Rover, something he had campaigned for and had finally got.

He decided to see if he could get up to the Strathbane road to find out how Geordie McArthur was doing and then, maybe, visit some more of the outlying crofts.

The road up to Geordie’s from the main road was impassable, so he strapped on his snowshoes and set out.

Geordie answered the door, his face flushed with whisky and bad temper.

“Get lost,” he snarled.

Hamish stood his ground.

“How’s the missus?”

“She left me afore Christmas to stay with her sister in Bonar Bridge. The minister’s wife got hold o’ her and she became that uppity, so I gave her a taste o’ ma belt and the next day herself was gone. She’s filing for a divorce. The minister’s wife told me you were concerned, so it’s all your fault, you bampot. Get the hell out o’ here.”

Hamish turned away. Some sixth sense made him duck as a large boot sailed over his head. Now, I could arrest him for that, thought Hamish, but just think of the paperwork. He plodded on through the drifts to his vehicle. Another blizzard was now screeching across the countryside.

Nothing more he could do but return to the police station and read books and watch television.

♦

After a night and day of pure white hell, the snow stopped falling and the wind died.

The following day was bright and sunny. Hamish shovelled snow, fed his sheep and hens, and did chores around his home.

The snowplough and the gritter had cleared a path along the waterfront. By evening, Hamish decided to reward himself by going to the Italian restaurant for a decent meal.

He put Sonsie in a haversack on his back and carried Lugs in his arms. He knew the salt on the road would hurt the animals’ paws.

Willie Lamont, the waiter, greeted him with delight. “This weather!” he exclaimed. “I thought I’d never see another customer again. I’ll take the beasties into the kitchen. This snow! It’s a fair cats trophy.”

“Catastrophe,” corrected Hamish, sitting down at a table by the window. “You’ll have plenty of folks in here soon. Patel’s grocery will soon be running out of stores. How are you doing yourselves?”

“We’ve enough pasta in the storeroom to feed the whole o’ Italy, and we’ve got a deer for the Bolognese sauce and things. Once the venison’s ground up and put in the sauce, folks can’t tell the difference.”

“How did you get the deer?” asked Hamish suspiciously.

“The poor thing just dropped dead outside the kitchen door. Must have been the cold.”

Or the quick slash of a kitchen knife, thought Hamish cynically. Willie went off to the kitchen, with Sonsie and Lugs trotting eagerly at his heels.

The door opened, letting in a blast of cold air. A vision entered the restaurant. She was tall and blonde and wearing a white quilted anorak with a fur-lined hood.

She smiled at Hamish. “What weather!” Her voice had a slight trace of a foreign accent.

“Visiting?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, I’m staying at the hotel. I thought I’d never get out. May I join you?”

“Of course.”

She took off her anorak and hung it on a peg by the door. She was wearing a white cashmere dress with a white cashmere cardigan. Round her neck was a rope of pearls. She had perfect skin, very white, high cheekbones, and green eyes. Her mouth was full and sensuous.

She sat down gracefully opposite Hamish. “Are you visiting?” she asked.

“No, I live here. I’m the local policeman.”

She gave a tinkling laugh. “I didn’t think there were any local policemen left in Britain.”

Hamish grinned. “I hang on. I like being an anachronism. It’s an odd time to visit the Highlands.”

“Oh, I’d never been to Scotland before. I live in London.”

“My name is Hamish Macbeth.”

“And mine is Gloria Price.”

“Staying long?”

“Just a week.”

“Are you on your own?”

“Completely.” She picked up the menu. “Seems to be a lot of venison. I think I’ll stick to pasta.”

Willie came rushing out. “Good evening, madam,” he said. “We have plenty of tables, and Mr. Macbeth may be waiting for Miss Halburton-Smythe.”

“I am not waiting for anyone,” said Hamish, irritated, knowing that Willie, like many of the locals, had never forgiven him for breaking off his engagement to Priscilla. “Take the order.”

Both ordered minestrone. Gloria chose lasagne to follow, and Hamish did the same.

“Would you choose the wine?” asked Gloria.

Hamish ordered a bottle of Valpolicella.

After Willie had retreated, Hamish asked, “What is your job?”

Again that charming laugh. “I don’t work. I am independently wealthy.”

“Ah, your husband is successful?”

She waved her fingers at him. “See, no wedding ring? The money is all mine. Daddy has shops all over the place.”

“What kind of shops?”

“Electrical goods, washing machines, computers, all that sort of stuff.”

“But you must have been married.”

“Never could find the right man. Of course, a lot of men have fancied my money. Tell me about your job.”

“It’s very quiet now,” said Hamish. “A few break-ins, nothing special.”

“But I read in the newspapers about murders up here.”

“Ah, fortunately that’s all over and done with.”

“Tell me about it.”

Hamish had the highlander’s gift of telling a good story, perhaps because the north of Scotland is the last place on earth where someone can tell a long story without fear of interruption.

Gloria was a good listener, and by the end of the meal, Hamish realised guiltily that he had been talking during the whole meal about himself.

He insisted on paying.

“I must return some of this hospitality,” she said.

“Why don’t you come back with me to the hotel for a nightcap?”

“That would be grand, but I’ve got my dog and cat in the kitchen. If you go on ahead, I’ll follow you.”

Willie came out of the kitchen, followed by the cat and dog. Hamish was helping Gloria into her coat.

Sonsie glared at Gloria, her lips drawn back in a snarl and her fur on end. Lugs let out a sharp bark.

“What’s got into you?” shouted Hamish. He opened the door and ushered Gloria out. “I won’t be long,” he said to her.

“I’ve told you and told you,” complained Willie, “that you shouldn’t be keeping a wild cat. That animal’ll kill someone one of these days.”

Hamish lifted up the cat and put her in his haversack, then picked up Lugs. “You’re a right jealous pair,” he lectured.

He took them back to the police station and left them in the kitchen before climbing into the Land Rover and heading up through the white walls of snow on either side of the road to the hotel.

He felt intrigued and happy at the same time. For a moment, Elspeth’s image hung in his brain like a pale ghost, and then it was gone.

Gloria was waiting for him in the reception area. She rose and walked forward to meet him. “There’s a noisy shinty team celebrating in the bar,” she said. “Let’s go up to my room. I’ve got a good bottle of malt.”

To his surprise, she led the way along a corridor past the manager’s office. “You’ve hired the bridal suite,” exclaimed Hamish.

“I like my comfort,” she said over her shoulder, “and I like to be on the ground floor.”

The suite consisted of a pretty sitting room and a double bedroom. “Make yourself comfortable,” said Gloria. “How do you take your whisky? Straight?”

“Just with a splash of water and not too much. I’ve got to drive back.”

She picked up a bottle from a side table. “Take a look out of the window, Hamish. Is it still blocked with that drift? I asked them to clear it.”

Hamish went to the window. “Pretty clear,” he said.

He sat down on a sofa. She sat opposite him in an armchair. “Cheers,” she said, smiling at him over her raised glass.

“Cheers.” Hamish took a sip, thinking she really had a beautiful face, thinking suddenly he had seen that face before.

She put down her glass. “I’m just going to repair my make-up. Won’t be a moment.”

Hamish was beginning to feel dizzy. He’d only had one sip. What the hell had she put in his drink? He knew now where he’d seen her – on that grainy video of the brothel. She had been one of the girls.

Freddie Ionedes had gone missing. Was she still working for him?

He decided to play along. He nipped over to the window, raised it, poured the rest of the drink in the snow, dived back to the sofa, slumped down, and closed his eyes just as she came out of the bathroom.

He felt her standing over him, smelled her perfume, sensed instinctively that she was going to do something to make sure he was really unconscious. When she slapped him hard across the face, he nearly betrayed himself, but instead he allowed his body to sag sideways on the sofa. He heard her make a phone call. “All set,” she whispered.

Then he heard the window being raised. Sounds of someone climbing in. A man’s voice said, “Good girl. Let’s get moving.”

Gloria’s voice: “Do we have to do this, Freddie?”

“I look after my own. Crystal wants him dead, and dead he’s going to be. No one will suspect anything. Did anyone see him coming into the hotel?”

“No, the reception was empty when he arrived.”

“Murphy’s outside, dressed in police uniform. He’s hot-wired the Land Rover. He’s bringing it round to the window. We’ll get this pillock out and into the back of the Land Rover. I’ll follow. Murphy knows where to go. If anyone sees him, they’ll think it’s this fool. All we do is lay him out in the snow, tip the Land Rover on its side. It’ll look as if he’s been thrown out. He’ll die in the cold before he ever gets a chance to come round. Tragic accident. You stay here and act the perfect guest.”

“I thought the reception was empty,” Gloria said, “but what if someone saw him come in? He isn’t in uniform.”

“Then say he got called out. He went back to the station to put his uniform on. You stay on here and act the perfect guest,” Freddie repeated.

Hamish recognised the sound of his Land Rover.

He heard Freddie say, “Climb in, Murphy. I’ll need your help getting him out.”

Hamish found it an effort to lie like a dead weight as he was shoved out of the window and into the snow. Then he was heaved into the back of his Land Rover.

As they drove off, Hamish cautiously slid his mobile phone out of his pocket. He texted Jimmy. Then he punched in Angela’s number, and when she answered, he whispered, “Hamish here. Danger. Freddie Ionedes is trying to kill me. Tell Strathbane. Set up roadblocks.”

He had been trying for ages to get a new Land Rover. Now he was glad of its age and the noisy engine that had drowned out the sound of his whispered voice.

As he had guessed, they only drove a comparatively short way. They wouldn’t want to get lost on the moors. They would stage the accident just off the main road, as the side roads were still banked up with drifts.

The Land Rover stopped. Hamish was dragged out and carried to a deep drift at the side of the road and thrown in.

“Shall we tip the Rover over on him?” he heard Murphy ask.

“No, I don’t want a mark on him.”

Hamish poked a finger upwards to give himself a breathing hole in the drift. He heard them panting and struggling as they tried to tip the Land Rover on its side.

“It’s no use,” came Freddie’s voice. “Leave it. Let’s get out of here.”

The cold was intense. Hamish fought against it. He did not want to die of cold after having survived this far.

To his relief, he heard them driving off.

He rose out of the snowdrift and climbed into the Land Rover, fishing for his keys and hoping the hot-wiring hadn’t messed up the engine. But the old vehicle roared to life. He turned the heater on full blast. He guessed they would take the road to Strathbane and then off down south. He set off in pursuit.

♦

Freddie and Murphy were laughing as they drove slowly through the white wilderness. “I’m telling you, I’m a genius,” said Freddie. “Can’t you go any faster?”

“The night’s so cold that the grit isn’t doing much. We’ll skid if we go any faster,” said Murphy.

Murphy negotiated a corner and then swore. An old car was blocking the road.

“Come on,” said Freddie. “Get out and help me move it.”

They both approached the car and began to try to push it to the side of the road.

Suddenly they were surrounded by a ring of men holding shotguns. “Get down on the ground,” shouted Willie Lament.

Freddie reached inside his parka for his gun and was felled with the butt of a shotgun. Murphy whimpered with terror.

Hamish Macbeth came driving up to a cheer from the men. He climbed down and handcuffed Murphy and cautioned him and then handcuffed the prone body of Freddie.

The pair were taken down to the police station and locked in the cell. Hamish changed into his uniform and sent for Dr. Brodie to examine Freddie, who was showing signs of coming round.

“He’ll have a big lump, and he’ll suffer from concussion,” said Dr. Brodie. “But he’ll live.”

Willie Lamont, the waiter who had once been in the police force, came in with Gloria.

“Shove her in the cell,” said Hamish. “The heavy mob’ll be along soon.”

Freddie recovered full consciousness and began to swear. Hamish charged him with attempted murder, kidnapping, and carrying a firearm. He then turned and charged Gloria with aiding and abetting kidnapping and attempted murder.

“He made me do it!” cried Gloria, her face streaked with tears.

Hamish ignored her. He ushered Dr. Brodie out of the cell and turned and locked it.

“Here they come,” said Dr. Brodie as the wail of sirens grew nearer.

“I’ll be glad to get rid of them,” said Hamish.

♦

It was a long night. Hamish had to follow the triumphant cavalcade of police vehicles to Strathbane, triumphant because the Northern Constabulary felt they had captured a dangerous criminal where Scotland Yard had failed.

His eyes gritty with fatigue, Hamish typed out a long statement. Then he was tested to find out what sort of drug had been put in his drink, although he complained that there was probably ample evidence of it somewhere in Gloria’s hotel room. Then he was interrogated by Daviot.

“If only you had married Miss Halburton-Smythe,” said Daviot after Hamish had finished his account, “you would not be easy prey to every harpy who crosses your path.”

“You’ve got your man, sir, and you wouldn’t have got him if he hadn’t come after me. And there’s one thing. That Land Rover of mine needs to be replaced. I cover a fair bit of the north of Scotland. What if it breaks down on an important job?”

“We’ll see what we can do. It’ll need to stay here while the forensic team go over it. I’ll get a constable to drive you home. Have you typed up your report?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I don’t think we’ll be needing you further. Mr. Blair and I will do the interrogation. Some officers from Scotland Yard will be arriving tomorrow.”

And Blair doesn’t want me around to steal any of the glory, thought Hamish cynically.

A pretty police constable was waiting for him. She had a mop of black curly hair and a rosy face. “Pat Constable,” she said.

“Pat what?”

“Constable. And spare me the jokes.”

“Been on the force long?”

“Only a few months.”

He leaned back in the seat of the police car, glad to be going home at last. He would have liked to sleep, but Pat kept asking him questions about the events of the night and Hamish found he was so bored with the sound of his own voice going over the whole thing again that he could have screamed.

As he got out stiffly from the car, highland courtesy demanded that he offer the constable some refreshment, and to his dismay, she accepted. He hoped his cat would take one of its rare dislikes to her and frighten her off, but Pat was intrigued by Sonsie and made such a fuss of the animal that the cat’s deep purrs reverberated around the kitchen.

Hamish made tea and produced a tin of biscuits. Pat had just come on the night shift and was as bright as a button. She told him all about her family in Dornoch, about her time at the police academy, while Hamish stifled his yawns and sent prayers up to the old Celtic gods to make her go.

At last, she rose to leave. “Maybe we could have dinner together one evening,” she said.

“Aye, maybe,” said Hamish, resisting an urge to put his hand in the small of her back and shove her out the door.

She turned out to be one of those irritating people who get up to leave and then stand in the doorway chattering away.

She finally left. He sighed with relief. He walked like a zombie into his bedroom, fell facedown on the bed, and collapsed into a dreamless sleep.

♦

Hamish was awakened at ten the next morning by a loud hammering at the front door.

I’m not going to answer that, he thought. Probably the press. The knocking grew louder, and a voice shouted, “Scotland Yard. Open up.”

Groaning, Hamish went to the front door and shouted through the letter box, “Come round to the kitchen door. This one’s jammed with the damp.”

He went to the kitchen door and opened it, suddenly sharply aware of his unshaven face and scruffy clothes as two smartly dressed men wearing expensive parkas over their suits came round the corner.

“Police Constable Hamish Macbeth?”

“That’s me.”

“I am Detective Chief Inspector Burrows from Scotland Yard, and this is Detective Sergeant Wilkins.”

“Come ben,” said Hamish. “I’m just up. It was a long night. I’ll make up the stove.”

Burrows watched with some amusement as Hamish raked out the stove, put paper and kindling in it, and struck a match. He had sensed in talking to Daviot and Blair that the detective abilities of Hamish Macbeth were being kept out of the picture, and he had decided to see the man for himself. He saw a tall, sleepy highlander with flaming red hair and almost guileless hazel eyes.

“Please sit down,” said Hamish, adding slabs of peat to the blaze. “Tea?”

“We’ve brought our own supplies,” said Burrows, lifting a carrier back onto the table. “We’ve a couple of thermoses of coffee and some croissants. And a bottle of whisky.”

“That was really thoughtful of ye,” said Hamish. “Where did you get croissants in Strathbane?”

“I gather it’s a new bakery.”

“Won’t last,” said Hamish. “They prefer things like deep-fried Mars bars.”

They all sat round the table. Burrows was a clean-cut man with neat features, while his sergeant was large with a great round head.

“What we would like,” said Burrows, “is to hear your version of events, starting with the murder cases. My God! What the hell’s that? A lynx?”

“That’s my cat,” said Hamish patiently. “Please may I have some coffee, and no, I don’t want any whisky in it.”

He began at the beginning again. Although he tried hard to make it look as if he had been nothing more than a bumbling local policeman who had hit upon clues by sheer accident, Burrows was not deceived.

After Hamish had finished, Burrows said, “I think you should be due for a promotion.”

He was startled by the look of alarm on Hamish’s face. “Who iss talking about promotion?” asked Hamish nervously.

“None of them at Strathbane. But I was going to put in a recommendation.”

“Please don’t do that, sir.”

Wilkins spoke for the first time. “He likes it here, sir. I like it here. I’ve been looking out the window at the sheep. I like looking at sheep.”

“Dear me. A country boy at heart? Is he right, Macbeth?”

“Aye. You see, you need a village policeman in this part o’ the world. If I got a promotion, they would shut down this police station. The folks from Strathbane would never think of checking on the old folks in the outlying crofts. They talk about community policing, but there’s damn little of it I can see.”

Said Burrows, “You mean you have no ambition whatsoever?”

“There iss the one thing.”

“And that is?”

“I need a new Land Rover. If you could put a word in for me about that.”

“I’ll do my best. We’d better get going. It might snow again.”

“A thaw is coming.”

“How do you know? Seen the weather forecast, have you?”

“No, I can always feel it.”

♦

The two Scotland Yard officers drove south to Strathbane. “Look, sir, the snow is melting,” said Wilkins.

“Strange man that Macbeth,” said Burrows. “He really needs a good strong push up the ladder. He shouldn’t be rotting in a country village.”

“He’s not rotting, sir,” said Wilkins vehemently. “He’s happy. Why is it that no one can stand a happy, contented, unambitious man?”

Burrows gave a reluctant laugh. “I’ve never met one before. I want to change him into one of us. Calm down. I’ll leave him alone.”