Death of a Snob

∨ Death of a Snob ∧

4

And sadly reflecting,

That a lover forsaken.

A new love may get,

But a neck when once broken

Can never be set.

—WILLIAM WALSH

Hamish stood in the doorway, his eyes averted. “I’ll chust wait here, Jane, while you go and put something on.”

“Oh, come on, Hamish,” she said breathily, and moved towards him.

“I’ll wait for you in the lounge,” said Hamish crossly. “Don’t you dare come near me until you make yourself decent.” And he stalked off, as stiffly as a cat.

Jane appeared in the lounge five minutes later. She had put on a housecoat that covered her from throat to heel. “Better?” she queried, tossing her hair.

“Much better,” said Hamish. “Now, lassie, chust you sit yerself down and tell me what on earth you were playing at.”

“Hamish Macbeth, I shouldn’t need to spell it out for you. A bit of fun.”

He shook his head in amazement. “That’s hardly the way to go about it. What would you have felt like in the morning?”

“Much better,” said Jane earnestly. “Sexual intercourse is a very healthy exercise and good for the skin.”

“So’s jogging. Jane, Jane, have you no feelings at all? Do you never feel rejection when a pass is turned down, shame when it isn’t?”

Jane looked at him in a puzzled way, one finger to her brow. Then her fece cleared. “Calvinism. That’s it!” she cried. “You have been brought up to have your mind warped by repressive religion.”

“And you haff been brought up to have your mind warped by women’s magazines. I thought all this free love was out of fashion anyway,” said Hamish wearily. “We’re not getting anywhere. I must tell you flat that when John told me about your affairs, I felt sick.”

“Which one in particular?” asked Jane curiously.

“Some truck-driver.”

“Oh, that. The fellow was as queer as a coot. I only brought him around to annoy John.”

“Why?”

“He kept accusing me of having loose morals and he hurt me by his constant criticism of what he called my dizzy mind, so I decided to get my revenge. The laugh is that I was faithful to him right up till the divorce.”

“Then why try to get me into bed?”

“Oh, well, I thought if I did that, there would be a certain something between us and John would notice…”

Her voice trailed away.

“I’m not going to discuss this any further,” said Hamish. “I am here to do a job and I didn’t do it very well by letting you wander off on your own. I’ll go into the village tomorrow and report it to the local policeman. I couldn’t phone tonight. The man would be drunk as usual. Have you any idea if it was a man or a woman who pushed you?”

Jane shook her head.

“The pillbox is quite near the hotel. Haven’t you seen anyone coming and going – using it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Jane, “some little man.”

“Description?”

Jane shrugged. “They all look the same to me, small and bitter and prematurely old.”

“So you do know there’s a lot of hostility against you on this island? Why on earth do you stay amidst such hatred?”

“Hamish, I barely see them, and they’re cheerful enough when the health farm opens up to visitors because it means cleaning and serving jobs for the local women. They never did like me. There’s been a sort of intense hatred started up just recently.”

“The Bannerman woman?”

“I can’t see how she can have anything to do with it. She’s always been one of the women who’ve actually talked to me when I’ve gone into the village. Look, Hamish, I’ve made a success of this place. People who wouldn’t dream of going to a health farm in the home counties come up here. It has a romantic interest and I attract walkers and outdoor types as well as those who want to lose weight. I showed that ex-husband of mine I could do it and made him eat his words.”

“I’ll let you know how I get on with my investigations tomorrow,” said Hamish. “Goodnight.”

She threw him a look, half-mocking and half-appealing. One hand toyed with the long zip at the top of her housecoat and Hamish was frightened she meant to pull it down and fairly scampered from the room.

≡≡≡

The next day, he made his way towards the village. He had hoped Harriet might have wanted to accompany him, but that lady had gone out walking with Heather, of all people.

Once again, he came across Geordie and his truck stuck on the road, Geordie, Hamish had decided, staged these breakdowns for some mad reason of his own, and so he ignored Geordie’s meanings and waitings and offered to drive him: He had been unable to borrow Jane’s jeep because it was insured to cover only her driving.

The truck started amiably enough. “He likes you,” said Geordie, shaking his head. “An odd beast.”

“Forget about the truck,” said Hamish. “Who uses that pillbox on the beach?”

“Angus Macleod. Him and his son have a fishing boat. It wass the wan that brought yourselfs over.”

“Well, last night, someone pushed Mrs. Wetherby into that pillbox and bolted the door. She could have died of exposure.”

“Och, it’s all right,” said Geordie. “Angus wass in the bar last night and he wass saying he would let herself out at midnight when he had given her a rare fright.”

“I’ll be seeing Angus, then,” said Hamish grimly.

“Ye won’t be able to dae that. Himself took the boat out this morn.”

Hamish stopped the truck. Geordie screeched, “He dis-nae like tae be stopped for no reason at all.”

“Forget the truck. Listen. Do you hate Mrs. Wetherby?”

“Naw, I hivnae the time to hate anybody what with bringing the lobsters over frae the west and collecting the goods for people to deliver when the ferry comes in.”

“Well, she’s hated nonetheless. When did it start?”

“Och, nobody likes incomers, and the wimmen are fair scandalized with the leg show she puts on, but it must hae been recently they all started cursing and blinding. Don’t know what started it.”

“Well, I’ll find out.” Hamish turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened, not even a choke. “I telt you he didnae liked to be stopped for no reason,” said Geordie patiently.

“I’m fed up wi’ your nonsense.” Hamish opened the door. “I’m walking.”

He slammed the door behind him and strode off down the road. “Comeback!” screeched Geordie’s voice. “He’s following you!”

Hamish turned around, and with a feeling of superstitious dread, he saw the truck rolling silently towards him. He stopped and the truck stopped beside him. He climbed in, checked the brakes, turned the key in the ignition, and the engine roared to life.

He drove silently into Skulag, vowing that once he had a bit of time, he would find a mechanic to check Geordie’s truck.

The police station was locked. Hamish leaned on the bell for a considerable time until at last the blear-eyed constable, still in his pyjamas, answered the door.

“And they call me lazy!” marvelled Hamish.

“What d’ye want?” growled Sandy.

“I want you to put on your uniform and go and charge Angus Macleod with assault.”

“He’s awa’.”

“Well, when he comes back.”

Sandy looked at him with contempt. “You mean, for pushing thon Wetherby woman into the pillbox? That’s naethin’s but mischief. Look, Macbeth, I’m no’ going tae arrest anyone. When I first got here, I arrested two o’ the fishermen for stealing the council’s wire wastebaskets off the jetty to use as lobster pots. The islanders gathered around the polis station calling for ma’ blood and I had to climb out on the roof and sit there most o’ the night. If you think I’m arresting Angus for a little bit o’ fun, think again.” He slammed the police station door in Hamish’s face.

Hamish strolled thoughtfully along the jetty. He could phone Strathbane and report Sandy, but he did not want to do that. There would be a full-scale inquiry and he, Hamish, would be made to look ridiculous. Besides, all the islanders, he was sure, would gang up and swear Angus had been with them all day. He saw one of the fishermen, and remembering Geordie’s truck, asked him if there was a mechanic on the island…

The man stood for a long time and then decided to reply. “There’s Bert Macleod down the village! He does the MOTs and things like that,” meaning the annual Ministry of Transport checks on all vehicles over three years old.

“And where does he live?”

“Opposite Mrs. Bannerman.”

Hamish walked along the village street, all too aware of the twitching curtains. Mrs. Bannerman was working in her patch of front garden. She saw him and scurried inside.

Opposite her house on the other side of the street was a cottage with a shed at the side, with the legend A. J. MACLEOD, MOTOR MECHANIC, above the door.

He went inside. There was a pair of legs in greasy overalls sticking out from under a car.

“A word with ye,” called Hamish.

The man wriggled out and scrambled to his feet. “Are you any relation to Angus Macleod?” asked Hamish.

“His brither,” said Bert sullenly.

“He’s in bad trouble. He’s assaulted Mrs. Wetherby.”

“It wis jist a joke and Sandy won’t be touching him.”

“No, but I’m a policeman, and if Sandy doesn’t do anything about it, I can report him to headquarters and he’ll be taken off the island and you’ll get a replacement who won’t put up wi’ your nonsense.”

Bert, a small man with weak eyes behind thick-lensed glasses, blinked up at Hamish. He jingled some change in his overall pocket and looked sly.

“We could aye come to an arrangement,” he said in a wheedling voice.

“Aye, maybe we could. Do you ken Geordie Mason, him wi’ the haunted truck?”

“O’ course.”

“Did the MOT, did you?”

“Last year. Naethin’ up wi’ it.”

Hamish looked at him cynically. He knew there were garages that would pass any old vehicle as being sound, provided the price was right.

“If you want me to leave Angus and Sandy alone, you’ll do this. Tell Geordie I’ve said there is something wrong wi’ his truck and get it in here and take it apart and make sure it’s sound.”

Bert pushed back a filthy cap and scratched his head. “It won’t mind that,” he said, “Geordie says it likes a bit of attention.”

“You’re all crazy,” said Hamish in disgust. “Just see to that truck.”

On the road back, he turned his mind to the problem of who could possibly have started the hatred for Jane Wetherby. Mrs. Bannerman? Someone from the health form? Did anyone from the health farm talk to the islanders? They had all been there two weeks before his own arrival, time enough to do damage. He would need to ask Harriet. The thought of Harriet Shaw cheered him immensely. The wind had dropped as he neared The Happy Wanderer, and snow began to fall in large feathery flakes. He stopped, amazed. He could not ever remember having seen a white Christmas. Usually it snowed a bit before Christmas and a lot after Christmas. Perhaps this too would fade away before the twenty-fifth.

A Christmas atmosphere seemed to have fallen on Jane’s guests at last. They were all helping her trim a large synthetic tree in the lounge and hang decorations. Even John Wetherby was laughing as he stood on top of a ladder and tried to reach up to put the fairy on top of the tree…

When the tree was finished, Hamish took Jane aside and told her the result of his investigations. Jane clapped her hands in delight. To Hamish’s horror, she called out, “Listen, everybody! Isn’t Hamish clever? He went into Skulag and found out that it was Angus Macleod, a fisherman, who pushed me into that pillbox.”

John Wetherby slowly turned round. He had been bent over a box to start bringing out the tinsel and paper decorations with which to decorate the rest of the lounge and dining room. At Jane’s words he straightened up abruptly and swivelled to face Hamish.

“You reported this to the police, of course,” he said sharply.

“Of course,” said Hamish, dreading what was going to come next.

“Then why hasn’t the policeman been out here to take Jane’s statement?”

“Because Angus told everyone he only did it to give Jane a fright and that he was going to let her out at midnight. Sandy refused to charge him.”

“Well, he’ll bloody well have to charge him. All Jane has to do is make a complaint of assault and see he does his duty.”

“It’s not so easy,” said Hamish. “All the islanders will gang up and say that Angus was in their sight all day.”

“Forensic tests,” barked John.

“They wouldn’t get anywhere,” said Hamish wearily, “that is, if Strathbane even bothered to send anyone out here. Footprints? The tide’s been up as far as the entrance to the pillbox, not to mention the howling wind sweeping any marks clear. Fingerprints? Of course Angus’s would be on the bolt, for it’s where he stores his stuff.”

John Wetherby stared at him long and hard and then a smile curled his lips. “I’ve got it,” he said softly. “You’re a copper yourself. Not a private detective, not even a police detective. Who else, I ask you, would wear boots like that?”

Hamish looked miserably at his feet. He was wearing an old tweed sports jacket, checked shirt, and plain tie and cords. But on his feet were his regulation boots. They had been broken in long ago and were very comfortable, and the thrifty Hamish had seen no reason to waste money on shoes when the state could supply him with footwear.

Harriet Shaw’s eyes travelled quickly from face to face. There was a stillness in the room. Heather was frankly goggling, Diarmuid was looking enigmatic as usual, the Carpenters were leaning against each other, plump shoulder against plump shoulder, but someone had let out a startled exclamation, quickly stifled. Which one had it been?

“All right,” said Hamish. “But I am on holiday.”

“It was that bathroom heater,” said John, Founding on Jane. “You silly cow. How like you to get so paranoid over a mere accident.”

“At least he found out who shut me in the pillbox,” said Jane quietly. “Now can we all just go ahead and try to have a decent Christmas?”

Whether it was Jane’s remark, whether it was the presence of a policeman among them, or whether it was because Christmas was approaching was hard to tell, but at least the next few days passed almost in tranquillity. Hamish was surprised that Heather went to great lengths to keep out of his way. He had expected to have lectures from her on the fascist police.

Harriet, too, appeared to be avoiding him. When Hamish taxed her with it, she smiled and said she was too busy catching up on some writing in her room. He took refuge in reading articles in the women’s magazines collected by Jane. They ranged from the supremely sensible to the downright ludicrous, depending on the publication. In one of the trashier efforts, he found an article entitled ‘Shock Tactics’. It was all about how to get the man of your choice. “Faint heart never won fair gentleman,” he read. “Stun him. Invite him round and put on that naughty nightie and those sheer, sheer stockings.” He put down the article, feeling slightly sad. There was something almost pathetic about Jane. It was as if she had so little self-esteem that she needed to find a personality in the pages of a magazine.

And then, on Christmas Eve, something happened that made him uneasy. He saw Jane slip a note into Diarmuid’s hand. He wondered uneasily if Jane was after Diarmuid, and his heart sank. Jane was determined to seduce someone to get at John Wetherby. Did she realise that by getting at John she would have Heather to deal with? For if any affair was obvious enough for John to notice, then it would be plain as day to the horrible Heather as well.

He went to bed trying to work things out in his mind. There was a ferry arriving and leaving again on Boxing Day. He was determined to be on it. Jane needed a minder to protect her from malice, not a policeman, and she had enough money to hire one. He resolved to tell her that in the morning.

But he awoke very early, and in the distance he heard the reassuring sounds of domestic clatter. Then he remembered that Harriet was making the Christmas dinner, which was to be served in the middle of the day. He shaved and dressed and made his way to the kitchen. Harriet was bending over one oven, taking out a tray of mince pies. A huge stuffed turkey stood ready to be placed in the other, larger oven.

“My, you’ve been busy,” said Hamish admiringly. She was wearing a scarlet wool dress and a frilly apron. Instead of her usual sensible walking shoes, she was wearing a pair of scarlet low-heeled pumps.

“My big day,” said Harriet, avoiding his gaze. “Can I get you some coffee?”

“Yes, and you’d better tell me the truth about why you’ve been avoiding me,” said Hamish. “Come on. If it’s because I’m getting on your nerves, I’ll float off like the Highland mist.”

“No, it’s not that,” said Harriet slowly. She leaned her floury hands on the kitchen table. “I became a bit worried. I am not in a position to get into any emotional entanglements, and I like to cut them off before they start to happen. That’s a bit muddled, but I’m sure you know what I mean. I began to sense something there. Attraction. On my side, at least.”

Normally shrewd, Hamish should have asked her why she was avoiding any emotional entanglement, but he felt such a surge of elation that she found him attractive that common sense went out the window.

“Och, I’m not the type to get heavy,” he said.

“There is also the question of age. I am forty-five and you, I judge, are somewhere in your early thirties.”

“Is this a proposal of marriage?”

“Hamish Macbeth! Don’t be silly.”

“Well, then, I suggest we continue to be attracted to each other. Friends it is,” said Hamish with a grin. “Need any help?”

She looked at him half-ruefully. “Yes, I could do with a bit of help. You do make me feel like a pompous fool. Friends we are. The oven’s ready for the turkey, if you’d just put it in.”

“Actually, I’m thinking of leaving on the ferry tomorrow,” said Hamish after shutting the oven door. “It hasn’t been the nicest of visits. Jane needs a minder, not a copper.”

“I might leave with you,” said Harriet, “although it will be a waste of left-over turkey.”

“Why?”

“Jane doesn’t really like the idea of meat. She’ll probably throw the rest away. I won’t be around to make turkey hash or turkey sandwiches.”

“Then just wrap it up and I’ll take it with me.”

“Hamish Macbeth, whatever for?”

“It’ll go to waste otherwise. She can’t offer it to anyone on the island, her being so unpopular.”

“All right, Hamish. If you are prepared to carry a turkey carcass back to Lochdubh, you are welcome.”

“How did you come to write cookery books?” asked Hamish.

Harriet worked away at the kitchen table and told him about her writing career while pleasant smells filled the kitchen. The snow had disappeared, as it always seemed to do on Christmas Day, but there was the usual gale howling outside to intensify the air of cosiness inside.

After his pleasant morning, Hamish was prepared to find Christmas dinner a let-down – because of the nature of the guests rather than the cooking, which turned out to be superb. There was soup made from the turkey giblets, followed by the finest Scottish smoked salmon. Then came the turkey, brown and glistening, with chestnut stuffing and chipolata sausages. John carved the turkey and the atmosphere was fairly jolly. But it was Jane, not Heather, who turned things sour.

Sheila and Ian asked for second helpings and Hamish was just about to hand his plate over as well when Jane said seriously, “All this overeating is very bad for you, Sheila. Didn’t I tell you in the summer that it was not crazy diets which took off the fat but sensible exercise and eating smaller meals?”

Sheila’s face crumpled. “You’re horrid,” she said.

“What do you want my wife to look like?” demanded Ian furiously. “Some sort of girlish whore, like you?”

Jane said in a maddeningly reasonable voice, “Your affection and loyalty to your wife do you credit, Ian, but it is known as enabling, just like giving an alcoholic drink. I have often noticed…”

“Shut up, you stupid bitch,” said John. “Don’t you realise you are being downright cruel?”

Jane looked at him, open-mouthed.

“Here, now.” Diarmuid leaped to Jane’s defence. “It’s Jane’s job to see we are all healthy.”

“Not while we’re her guests,” said Harriet. “Realty, Jane, you are going to turn into one of those people who pride themselves on speaking their mind while they tramp over everyone’s finer feelings.”

Comforted by all the voices in her defence, Sheila took a plate of turkey from John, and then threw another metaphorical log on the already blazing fire. “Like Heather, you mean?” she said sweetly.

“Don’t try and pick on me or it’ll be the worse for you,” said Heather. “I am glad I am a woman of independent mind and haven’t got a brain stuffed with rubbish from romances.”

“But you haven’t got an independent mind, Heather dear,” John brandished the carving knife at her. “It’s full of Communist claptrap. You’re the sort of woman who would have turned her husband and family over to the KGB, all to the glory of Joe Stalin. And furthermore, if you have such an independent mind, why do you try to dress like Jane? She can get away with wearing short frocks because she’s got good legs and a first-class figure while you just look like mutton dressed as lamb.”

Harriet looked desperately at Hamish, who rose to his feet. He raised his glass. “Merry Christmas, everyone,” said Hatnish Macbeth.

Startled, they all muttered “Merry Christmas.” Hamish remained on his feet. “Her Majesty, the Queen,” he proposed. All dutifully drank that one, except Heather. “And here’s to our cook, Harriet Shaw,” went oh Hamish gleefully, while everyone hurriedly replenished their glasses. “And to our hostess. “Harriet began to giggle. “Do sit down, Hamish. You’ll have us quite drunk.”

But the sudden rush of alcohol into the systems of the angry guests worked well. The quarrels appeared to have been temporarily forgotten by the time the Christmas pudding was served.

After the meal was over, Jane led the party through to the lounge.

“Oh, dear,” murmured Harriet, for under the tree was a pile of presents. Jane had bought presents for everyone. Harriet had guessed she would, but had forgotten to warn Hamish. Diarmuid got that item of headgear usually advertised in mail-order catalogues as a ‘genuine Greek fisherman’s hat. He was delighted and ran to a mirror to admire the effect. Harriet got a newfangled pastry-cutter; Sheila, a new romance called Texas Heat; Ian, a pair of slippers; John, a pocket calculator; Heather, a large volume entitled The Degradation of the Working Classes in Victorian Scotland; and there was even a present for Hamish. It was a grey-green sweater ornamented with strutting pheasants.

The guests then went to fetch their presents for Jane. “I forgot to warn you,” whispered Harriet to Hamish. “Have you got anything?”

Hamish suddenly remembered the bottle of perfume in his luggage. He had bought it to give to Priscilla and had then forgotten about it, having packed it by mistake along with his shaving-kit. “I only need a bit of Christmas wrapping,” he whispered.

Soon Jane was crowing with delight as she unwrapped her presents, although they were a singularly unimaginative set of offerings, from a cheque from her ex-husband to a record of protest songs from Heather.

“Gosh, I’ve eaten so much,” sighed Heather.

“A good walk is what we need.” Jane got to her feet. “Why don’t you all go ahead and I’ll catch up with you?”

Heather fumbled about the coats hanging at the doorway, complaining she could not find her oilskin. “Take mine,” said Jane. “Save you time looking. I’ve got another one.” So Heather put on Jane’s yellow oilskin and an of them went out into, the fierce gale.

It was after they had gone a mile along the beach that Hamish realised that Diarmuid and Heather were having a monumental row. The wind snatched their words away but then the little group saw Heather smack her husband’s face. Diarmuid turned on his heel and strode back in the direction of the hotel. As he passed Hamish, his face was tense and excited.

Heather strode off inland, at right angles to the beach, without a word. The others huddled together and watched her go. “I wonder what all that was about?” said Sheila. “I thought they never had rows – well, hardly ever.”

“Look,” said Ian, “there’s a truck coming along the beach.”

Hamish recognised Geordie’s antique Fiat. It drew to a stop beside them and Geordie jumped down. He held out his hand to Hamish. “I want tae thank you,” he said. “I’ve neffer had a bit o’ trouble wi’ him since Macleod fixed things.”

“There you are,” said Hamish with a grin. “It’s all in the mind. Where are you off to?”

“Skulag. I’ve had enough o’ the missus. I’m going to the bar.”

“Why don’t we go with him?” Hamish asked the others. They all agreed, suddenly not wanting to go back to the health farm and spend the rest of Christmas Day with a warring Heather and Diarmuid.

“What about Jane?” asked John.

“I don’t think she means to come,” pointed out Hamish. “And besides, we never told her which way we were going on our walk.”

“Two in the front and the rest up on the back,” said Geordie.

They all rattled cheerfully on their way and were soon settled in the bar of The Highland Comfort, ignoring the hostile stares of the locals and getting quite tipsy. Geordie had said he didn’t dare join them, lest the islanders damn him for consorting with “the enemy.”

It was five o’clock when Hamish reluctantly suggested they should return. It had been so easy and companionable. The Carpenters had told stories of farming life in Yorkshire, John had related some very witty anecdotes about terrible judges, and Harriet had made them laugh with an account about being interviewed on television by an interviewer with a prepared list of questions who thought Harriet was a literary-prize winner and who had ploughed on regardless.

Geordie had disappeared, and so they all had to walk back. Hamish took Harriet’s hand. He knew he was quite drunk, a rare state of affairs for him. He felt warm and happy despite the howling wind and darkness. But as soon as he saw the pink sign of The Happy Wanderer, he experienced such a sharp feeling of dread that he let Harriet’s hand drop and stood still.

“What’s the matter?” asked Harriet.

He shivered. “Someone walking over my grave. Come on. Jane will be wondering what has happened to us all.”

Jane and Diarmuid were seated in the lounge in front of the fire, side by side on the sofa. They rose to meet the company. Hamish looked at both of them sharply but Diarmuid looked much as usual, and Jane seemed delighted to see them, asking if they had enjoyed their walk.

“Where’s Heather?” asked Hamish sharply.

“Still out. She walked off in a huff, if you remember,” replied Diarmuid.

“She shouldnae be out in the dark on her own. She hadn’t a torch.” Hamish looked worried. “We’re going to have to organize a search-party.”

“It’s not late,” said Jane soothingly. “She’s probably stay-big away to give us a fright.”

“And she’s succeeding wi’ me,” said Hamish grimly. He picked up a torch. “I’m going to look for her.”

“I’m coming too,” volunteered Harriet, not because she was worried about Heather but because she did not want to be with the others without Hamish.

“I think you ought to go too,” said John, looking at Diarmuid with dislike. “That is, if you can tear yourself away from my wife.”

“Ex-wife,” said Diarmuid huffily. But he got to his feet and took his Harbour coat down from a hook at the door and then spent some time adjusting his new cap on his head. Not wanting to be left out of things, the Carpenters volunteered their services, and then Jane said she would go as well, for she knew the island better than any of them.

They split up outside. Harriet insisted on staying with Hamish and Sheila with her husband. Jane and Diarmuid and John looked at each other under the light of the pink sign and then, without a word, went their separate ways.

“I couldn’t be on my own on an island like this,” said Harriet, keeping close to Hamish. “It’s spooky. You forget there are still parts of the world where there are no street lights, no shops, nothing but the howling wind and blackness.”

For hours they struggled through endless miles of moorland and croftland, knocking at cottage doors from time to time, asking if anyone had seen Heather, but no one had.

It was nearly midnight when they returned, to learn from the others that Heather was still missing. Hamish went through to the phone and tried to rouse Sandy Ferguson, the policeman, but without success. He then phoned headquarters at Strathbane and ordered air-sea rescue patrols just in case Heather had been blown off some crag into-the sea.

He sat up late while the others went to bed, waiting and hoping for Heather’s return. In the morning, he set out at six and walked down to the village and began banging on doors and summoning all the men he could get to help in the search. Strangely, he knew there would be no difficulty. The islanders’ spite did not extend to leaving some woman, possibly injured, lying out on the moors.

As dawn finally rose, he already had a line of men straggling out from the village, searching everywhere. The gale was tremendous, booming and shouting and roaring across the sky. Soon the brief daylight would begin to fade. Hamish looked up at the sky. There seemed little hope of any air rescue even getting off the landing strip in such weather.

Sandy Ferguson had sulkily joined the search. He looked more hung over than ever.

Hamish became aware that a red-haired child was studying him curiously as he searched around a large peat stack.

The boy crept closer. “Are ye looking for her?” he whispered.

“Aye,” said Hamish. “A Mrs. Todd.”

“I saw her sunbathing,” said the boy.

Hamish looked at the white, pinched face and his eyes sharpened. “Could you take me to where she was sunbathing?”

“Aye, I could that, but it’s ower on the west.”

“What’s your name, laddie?”

“Rory Sinclair.”

Hamish called to one of the men on the road, who came running up. He drew him aside. “This boy’s talking about seeing a woman sunbathing.”

“Och, Rory’s daft. A wee bitty simple.”

“Still, we’ve got to try everything. You’ve got your car. Let’s get the lad into it and get him to show us where he saw the woman.”

Rory climbed into the passenger seat, highly excited at the thought of a trip in a car.

“Where on the west?” asked Hamish from the back seat.

“Balnador.”

The car, an old battered Mini-Cooper, chugged its way along roads which were little more than tracks, heading to the north-west of the island. “Vroom! Vroom!” said Rory, obviously enjoying himself hugely.

The car finally rolled to a stop. The driver said, “This is as far as I can get to the shore.”

Hamish climbed out, helped Rory out of the front seat, and said, “Show me where you saw her.”

The boy scampered ahead. The clouds parted and a fitful gleam of sunlight shone on the crags of rocks ahead, sticking up like broken teeth. The boy scrambled up them like a young deer, crouching before the wind. Then he shouted something that was torn away by the gale and pointed down.

Hamish scrambled up after him and lay on his stomach on a small triangle of mossy grass. The crag overlooked the sea. Huge waves were racing in, black and green and dashing themselves on a small pebbly beach. The thunder of the waves was deafening. The whole world seemed to be in motion.

Waves reared up to tremendous heights before tumbling down with a powerful roar.

Hamish put his lips to the boy’s ear.

“Where?”

Again the boy pointed down.

Hamish craned over the crag. And there down below, just beyond the fanning spread of the crashing waves, he saw a woman’s foot.

Balancing against the ferocity of the wind, he turned and signalled to the driver, a small figure in the distance, and waited impatiently until the man crawled up to him. “She’s here,” bawled Hamish. “Get the doctor and get help, but take this lad away first.”

When the boy had gone, Hamish slowly began to ease his way down to the small beach.

Heather Todd lay under a curve of overhanging rock. He stooped down and felt her pulse. Nothing. He examined her head and then gently lifted it. Her neck was broken and there was an ugly bruise on the side of it. He drew his knees up to his chin and waited, shivering, beside the dead body, for help to arrive.