Death of a Valentine

Josie took one look at the cheap jar of instant coffee on Hamish’s kitchen counter and ran to Patel’s to buy a packet of real coffee. Returning to the police station, she made the coffee in a pewter jug by pouring boiling water over the grounds, sprinkling a little cold water on the top to settle them, and adding a small pinch of salt.

Then she lit the stove and put the pot on top to keep the coffee warm. Hamish shaved and showered. In the kitchen, he gulped down two cups of black coffee. To Josie’s dismay, he didn’t seem to notice the difference from his usual brew.

Hamish had in fact noticed the difference and had seen the packet of real coffee but did not want to thank Josie in case she was encouraged to encroach on his home.

Before he left the station he phoned Jimmy, who told him that Hamish had the job of breaking the news to Mrs. Lussie.

“We’re off to see Mark’s mother,” said Hamish as they drove off. “What was that boy up to? Some way he put himself in danger by not telling us all he knew. Either that or he suddenly remembered something. Did he phone his killer and make an appointment? I wonder if he had a mobile phone. I hope we can find something to narrow the suspects down. I hate this sort of job-breaking bad news.”

But when they arrived at Mark’s home, it was obvious the news had already been broken by the highland bush telegraph. Neighbours were crowded into a small living room, murmuring condolences as Mrs. Lussie sat and wept.

“I would like a word with Mrs. Lussie,” said Hamish. “Will you all please wait outside?”

A large woman protested. “ Cannae ye leave the wumman alone?” she cried.

But Mrs. Lussie rallied. She dried her eyes and said, “I’ll speak to the sergeant. I want to find out who killed my boy.”

“Now, Mrs. Lussie,” said Hamish. “Did you hear Mark go out last night?”

She shook her head. “The baby was quiet for once so I got the first good sleep I’ve had in ages.”

“Did he say anything at all that might be significant? Or did he look excited in any way?”

She dabbed at her eyes with an already sodden handkerchief. “He didn’t say anything. He was reading a fillum magazine. Then we watched a bit o’ telly and he said he was tired and wanted an early night.”

“Did he have a mobile phone?”

“Yes, but he didn’t use it much. Poor lost soul. He didn’t seem to have that much friends. When we was with the church, he knew some young people, but he gave up the church.”

“May we see his room?”

“It’s up the stairs, first left.”

As Hamish and Josie went up the stairs, the neighbours who had been watching through the front window crowded in again.

The room was unexpectedly neat for a young man’s. It was quite small. There was a narrow bed, neatly made up, with a bedside table and reading lamp. A desk by the window with a hard upright chair in front of it held a pile of comics and film magazines. There was no computer or posters or pictures on the walls, which were covered in an oatmeal patterned wallpaper. A tall, thin wardrobe fronted by a long glass mirror stood against one wall, and a chest of drawers against another.

Hamish put on gloves and so did Josie. “You search the bedside table,” he said, “and I’ll have a look in the wardrobe.”

There were few clothes hanging up: one dark blue suit and black coat, three long-sleeved shirts, a puffa jacket, and a tweed jacket. Underneath the clothes was a pair of black shoes and three pairs of sneakers. He searched in all the pockets but did not find anything. He even ran his gloved fingers along the insides of all the footwear in case anything had been hidden there.

“I’ve got his bank book and phone bill,” said Josie.

Hamish took them from her. Mark had had a post office savings account with fifty pounds in it. The phone bill only listed five numbers. One was to his home; Hamish’s sharp eyes had taken a note of the phone number on the receiver dial when he had been downstairs. The other four were to a Strathbane number. Hamish thought they would probably turn out to be made to the wildlife park. He took out his mobile, dialled directory enquiries, asked for William Freemont’s phone number, and gave the address of the wildlife park. The operator gave him the number. It was the same number as the four on the phone bill.

“Bag them up,” he said to Josie. “That’s the old phone bill. We’ll need to get Strathbane to check with the phone company and find out if he phoned anyone last night. I’ll just look in the chest of drawers.”

The top drawer contained underwear, the second socks, and the third T-shirts. In the bottom drawer, there was a small photo album and a selection of soft porn magazines. Hamish flipped open the photo album. It contained pictures of Annie: Annie as the Lammas queen, Annie at various church functions, and a few of Annie taken when she was leaving her home. Apart from the ones of Annie, there were no family pictures.

“Bag that as well,” said Hamish, handing her the album. “I’m just going to move this chest of drawers in case something’s fallen down the back.”

There was no carpet on the floor, only a sort of spongy linoleum. He heaved the chest of drawers away from the wall. “What’s this?” he exclaimed. He stretched down and brought up a chemistry set. He sat down on the bed and carefully opened it. Most of the chemicals had been used.

“That’s it!” said Josie, leaning over him. “He was the bomber!”

“I think this is too basic to make such a sophisticated bomb,” said Hamish. “It’s probably just an old Christmas present.”

“But there are no other toys or presents in the room,” said Josie. “I mean, you’d think he would have old schoolbooks, or stuffed toys, or model airplanes, or something like that.”

“We’ll bag it up and take it. Let’s see Mrs. Lussie again. It means getting rid of the neighbours.”

Once more, Mrs. Lussie’s sympathisers were told to wait outside. “We found a chemistry set in Mark’s room,” said Hamish. “When did he get that?”

“That was a while ago. A gentleman friend of mine gave it to him. He played with it for a bit and then forgot about it.”

“We’re taking it and some other things,” said Hamish. “Mark didn’t seem to keep anything much in his room. I thought we would find old toys or something like that.”

“It was the church. They were collecting toys for the poor. Mark was told it was his Christian duty to bring everything in.”

Hamish scribbled out a receipt and handed it to her. “Mrs. Lussie, if you can think of anything at all, please call me at the station in Lochdubh.”

“When can I bury my son?”

“I’ll tell the procurator fiscal to get in touch with you. They’ll be calling soon anyway. I’m afraid they will want you to identify the body. Is there no relative who could do the identification instead? Where is your husband?”

“I don’t know. He ran off after Mark was born.”

“Name?”

“Sam Lussie.”

“What did he do for a living?”

“Nothing much,” she said bleakly. “He was on the dole.”

“Is there anyone who could identify the body other than yourself?”

“I’ll do it,” she said tearfully. “I want a last look at my son.”

Outside, Hamish phoned Jimmy. He said he was sending Police Sergeant Southern to collect Mrs. Lussie and take her to the procurator fiscal’s office. Hamish told him about finding the chemistry set but added that it looked like too amateur a kit to have made the bomb. Jimmy said he was still up at the war memorial and if Hamish brought the chemistry set up to him, he would take it over to the forensic lab in Lochdubh. They would start by checking with the phone company as well.

The wind was screaming around the war memorial when they arrived. Above them, the black bronze statue of a Boer War soldier stared out across Braikie to the heaving sea.

“Can’t find a thing what with this heather all about,” complained Jimmy. “Oh, here comes our lord and master. Afternoon, sir, has Roger said anything yet?”

“Not a thing,” said Blair, lumbering up to them, the cold wind raising red patches on his groggy face. “What have ye got?”

“Macbeth’s just found a chemistry set in Mark Lussie’s room,” said Jimmy.

Blair visibly brightened. “That’s it. Case closed.”

“Not really, sir. The chemistry set looks like a kid’s one. And we’ve still got to find out who murdered Mark.”

“You,” said Blair in a sudden fury, glaring at Hamish, “take your wee sidekick and get down there to thae houses and see if anyone saw anything.”

Hamish repressed a sigh. As he looked down the hill, he could see police officers going door to door, but he said meekly, “Yes, sir.”

He walked down the hill to where his Land Rover was parked. “Get in,” he said to Josie.

“Aren’t we going to…?”

“No. Waste of time. That ground’s being covered. We’re going back to Lochdubh. I’ve got to think.”

Once back at the police station, Josie followed him quietly in, not wanting him to be too aware of her presence and send her away.

Hamish went straight to the police office. Josie was glad the dog and cat were nowhere around. They came and went by a large cat flap on the kitchen door. Hamish sat down at his desk, and Josie pulled a chair up next to him.

“What I want to do,” said Hamish, taking a notebook out of his desk, “is to make a list of all the suspects, and then we start somehow to check up and see if there is anything in any of their backgrounds to show they had the knowledge to make a bomb.”

“Shall I make some coffee, sir?” asked Josie.

“Yes, that would be grand.”

Josie went happily off to the kitchen where she was soon lost in a rosy dream of being Hamish’s wife.

When she came back with two mugs of coffee and a plate of biscuits, Hamish was checking down a list he had made.

“I can’t leave out Jake Cullen,” he said. “I know he’s dead but he might have murdered her before that. Maybe Annie knew something about drugs at that club and had threatened to tell the police. Now, I can’t forget Bill Freemont.”

“He seemed a stupid man,” said Josie.

“He could have got someone to do it for him. I wonder if he has any criminal connections? Or Jocasta, his wife? No, scrub that one. I should think she’s been too out o’ love wi’ him for a while to get jealous enough.”

“Is your coffee all right?” asked Josie.

“Yes, chust fine. Don’t sit so close to me. You’re crowding me.”

Josie blushed and drew her chair back.

“Then there’s Jessie Cormack. Annie took her boyfriend away-and that boyfriend, Percy Stane, had better be on the list as well. I may as well put the minister, Mr. Tallent, down as well. I’ll swear he was in love with Annie.

“But right at the moment, my main suspect is Barry Fitzcameron. He’s the spider in the middle o’ the web.”

The phone rang. It was Jimmy. “You’ll never believe this, Hamish. Blair went up the brae a bit for a nip o’ whisky out o’ his flask. A great gust o’ wind caught him and sent him tumbling down the brae right onto the crime scene and he banged his head on the plinth o’ the memorial and went out cold. Daviot’s here and he’s furious. Blair’s been taken to Braikie hospital.”

“Hang on a minute, Jimmy.” Hamish turned to Josie. “You may as well take the rest of the day off, what’s left of it. Run along.”

He waited until Josie had left and then spoke urgently. “Jimmy, raid that disco tomorrow.”

“You mean…?”

“I don’t want to think Blair was the informant, but do you think you could do it?”

“I’ll tell Daviot I’ve had a tip-off.”

“Just make sure Daviot doesn’t go visiting Blair!”

“I’ll tell him he’s not allowed visitors for the next forty-eight hours.”

Mrs. Wellington greeted Josie. “I’ve a nice venison casserole. You can have some of that. Sit down at the table. How’s Hamish?”

“As usual,” said Josie. “I’m thinking of getting a transfer back to Strathbane.”

Mrs. Wellington was alarmed. The money she received for housing Josie had come in very handy.

“You haven’t been having much fun here,” she said. “You should go to the dance in the hall this Saturday.”

“I don’t want to go on my own,” said Josie.

“Get Hamish to take you. That man needs a good woman.”

“He won’t want to go,” said Josie.

“Oh, he will,” said Mrs. Wellington. “I’ll make him.”

Mrs. Wellington thought that a nice clean girl like Josie McSween was just the kind to sort Hamish Macbeth out. That evening, her eyes gleaming with matchmaking, she made her way along to the police station.

“Come ben,” said Hamish reluctantly.

Mrs. Wellington followed Hamish into his living room and looked around in disapproval. There were two dirty coffee mugs beside his armchair and sheets of notes spread out on the floor. The dog and cat lay sleeping in front of a smoky peat fire.

Yes, Josie was just what this lazy policeman needed in his life. “I want you to take Josie to the dance on Saturday,” boomed Mrs. Wellington.

“I’m following up more than one murder,” protested Hamish. “And it iss not the thing at all to be socialising with my policewoman.”

Mrs. Wellington sank down in the little-used armchair opposite Hamish, sending up a cloud of dust.

“You must make an exception,” she said. “That young girl has had no social life at all since she came here. One evening won’t hurt you.”

“But-”

“No buts, young man. I expect to see you there. There’s been talk in the village about how lonely Josie must feel.”

Hamish suddenly just wanted to get rid of her. “Oh, all right,” he said ungraciously.

Josie was elated at the news. She escaped to her room and poured herself a large glass of whisky to celebrate. But then she began to wonder what would happen if Hamish Macbeth either did not dance or danced with her only once and then disappeared back to his station.

She drank more whisky and wondered what to do. She felt she wouldn’t get any sleep that night. Then she remembered that hidden in her luggage, she had a packet of Mandrax tablets. They had been part of a drug raid when she was in Strathbane. She had not been on the drug raid but had been given various drugs and told by Jimmy to take them down to the evidence lockers. It was only when she returned that she had found the packet in her pocket. Not wanting to get into trouble, she had taken them home with her. The missing tablets had not been noticed during the court case.

Mandrax, known as quaaludes in the States, was a banned drug. It was a powerfully addictive sleeping pill with dangerous side effects. Now, if she ground down some of the tablets and slipped it into Hamish’s drink, he would start to get dizzy. She could help him back to the police station, get him into bed after undressing him, and then undress herself and climb into bed with him. When he woke up, she could say they had had sex. He would feel obliged to marry her.

The mad idea fuelled by more whisky began to seem perfectly feasible.

Hamish was awakened two mornings later by the ringing of the telephone. He struggled out of bed, glancing at the clock in alarm, realising he had slept in, and rushed to answer it. It was Jimmy. “Och, man,” he said. “You’ll never believe what’s happened.”

“What?”

“Roger Burton’s escaped, but before he did he got into Barry’s cell and killed him.”

“How the hell did that happen?”

“Roger knocked out the copper who took him his breakfast. He dressed himself in the copper’s clothes, put his own clothes on the policeman, and put the policeman in the bed in the cell wi’ a blanket over him. He took his keys and found Barry’s cell. He stabbed him to death.”

“What with?”

“A sharpened toothbrush.”

“What on earth was left in his cell to sharpen the damn thing?”

“Didn’t need a knife. There’s rough concrete on that ledge by the window. He just rubbed it and rubbed it down to a point.”

“So you’d arrested Barry?”

“Aye, I forgot to tell you. We’d raided thon disco yesterday and found the stash o’ drugs. Oh, God, we’re all in deep crap here, right up to our oxters. Daviot is screaming blue murder and says if Blair had been around it wouldnae have happened. I tried to say that maybe we’d got Barry because Blair wasn’t around and Daviot says I cannot defend myself by libelling a good officer.”

“Any clue as to where Roger Burton is?”

“By the time they found out the fellow in the bed wasn’t Roger, he’d long gone.”

“What about the barman at the disco? He must know something.”

“It gets worse. He was bailed and now he’s disappeared as well. You’re on your own wi’ that valentine case. Getting anywhere?”

“Not so far. I’ve interviewed all my suspects again.”

“Keep at it. Daviot’s rampaging around. The duty officer’s been suspended, poor bastard, although it had nothing to do with him. We’ve got the press baying outside for blood and Daviot baying inside.”

When Hamish rang off, he thought that Blair must be thrilled to bits. If there was a connection to Barry, it would be hard to find it now.

There was a knock at the kitchen door. He opened it. Josie stood there, smiling up at him.

“I’m late,” said Hamish. “I was interviewing people until late last night.”

“You should have let me help you, sir,” said Josie.

“Get the coffee on and I’ll be ready in a minute.”

When Hamish finally appeared, dressed and shaved, Josie said, “It’s kind of you to offer to take me to the dance tomorrow.”

“I didn’t offer,” said Hamish, helping himself to coffee. “I was bullied into it.”

He waited for Josie to say something like, Oh, well, in that case, I’ll go myself, but she merely hung her head and looked miserable.

Hamish was suddenly sorry for her. “Don’t worry, Josie,” he said. “We’ll probably have a good time.”

He’d called her Josie! All Josie’s dreams flooded into her brain. But she said, “Where are we going today?”

“I want to try to get Jocasta on her own. If I’m right, she’s fed up with the marriage and might talk a bit freely if we can get her without her husband around.”

The first thing they saw as they drove up to the wildlife park was a large FOR SALE sign. “Now, that is very interesting,” said Hamish. “The marriage must be breaking up. Bill would never have let her sell.”

He drove down the muddy slope to the office.

Jocasta was found poring over accounts books. “Oh, it’s you,” she said curtly. “Find a chair. I’ll be with you in a minute.”

They sat waiting patiently while Jocasta turned pages, muttering, “Bastard!” and “Unbelievable.”

At last she sat back in her chair and said, “What?”

“Where is your husband?” asked Hamish.

“I neither know nor care. I’m filing for divorce. Bill ripping me off is one thing, but Annie Fleming was raiding the petty cash.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Quite sure.”

“And you really don’t know where your husband is?” said Josie.

“No. We had a row. I said I was filing for divorce and he took off after I said I was selling the place. This folly is fortunately in my name. I told him I was going to sell the place to a builder. You should have seen his face! The idiot considers himself an environmentalist. Oh, he’ll catch some other poor woman the way he caught me. I met him at one of those save-the-planet get-togethers in Edinburgh and he courted me and as soon as we were married, he sweet-talked me into this piece of rubbish. I used to be concerned about things like my carbon footprint. Now I don’t give a damn if it’s a carbon hobnailed boot. I want out.”

“It is very hard to get building permission,” said Hamish.

“I’ve got a loophole. I got building permission for this ratty office and the house and believe me that’s going to cover a multitude of sins, meaning a few rows of nasty little bungalows.”

“Have any of the creatures been returned to you?”

“Not a one. They were all, apart from the minks and the lion, from the local countryside. They’re all probably happy in their natural habitat. And they hadn’t been in the cages long enough to get used to being fed.”

“Have any of the animal libbers been caught?”

She gave a cynical laugh. “No. I think you lot have enough on your hands what with an escaped hit man and a murder in the cells to bother about a few idiots.”

“What did you think of Annie Fleming?” asked Hamish.

“A right little tart she turned out to be. I suspected there was something going on with Bill. I don’t think she could leave anything in trousers alone.”

“What about a kilt?” asked Josie seriously.

Hamish burst out laughing and Josie blushed. But Jocasta said, “About a month ago, I was walking out to the cages when I saw her up on the main road beside a four-by-four talking to a man in a kilt. He was all dressed up in the full rig like men wear when they’re going to a wedding or an official function.”

“What did he look like?”

“He was too far away. Medium height, dark hair. They saw me watching and he jumped in his vehicle and drove off.

“Then there was a weedy-looking youth hanging around. He kept trying to speak to Annie but she told him to get lost. I think she called him Percy.”

“I know who you mean,” said Hamish. “I think we’ll be having a wee word with that young man again.”

Back at the Land Rover, Hamish phoned police headquarters and asked for Mark Lussie’s mobile phone number. He waited patiently until he got it. Then he said to Josie, “Before we go and see Percy again, I’ve got an idea. Maybe Mark’s murderer threw that phone away in the heather.”

Josie shivered as she bent before the wind and followed Hamish up the brae to the war memorial. Out to sea, dark clouds were massing, and she hoped Hamish would either find the phone or give up before the threatening rain arrived.

Hamish took out his own phone and dialled Mark’s number. He began to walk away from the war memorial down the sloping hill on the other side. At the bottom of the hill was a small grocery shop with rubbish bins parked at the back.

“I wouldnae be surprised if he didnae dump the phone in one o’ thae bins,” he said.

“But the bins would have been cleared by now,” said Josie.

“Aye, and that’s why we’re going to the council tip.”

They reached the Land Rover just as the rain came down in sheets. “I haven’t got a raincoat with me,” said Josie.

“Did you bring your coveralls?” asked Hamish, meaning the plastic suit police wore at a crime scene so that they would not contaminate it.

“Yes, I got them.”

“They’ll do. Suit up when we get to the tip.”

The tip was down at the end of a long lane leading to the sea between Lochdubh and Strathbane. Josie’s heart sank when she saw the acres of rubbish stretched out under a stormy sky full of screeching, diving seagulls.

Hamish went into the office wearing black oilskins. He asked about the rubbish from the grocery and if the man in charge had any idea which part of the acreage it would end up in.

The man said vaguely it might be over to the far left of the dump.

With Josie trailing miserably behind, Hamish went over to the left, took out his phone, and dialled Mark’s number.

The wind dropped and he swore he could hear a faint ringing sound. “Come on, Josie,” he urged. “I think there’s something here under this pile o’ garbage.”

That use of her first name spurred Josie into action. “I won’t dial any more until we’ve dug down a bit,” said Hamish.

He paused occasionally to admire Josie’s diligence. He had been too hard on the lassie, he thought. After they had searched down a certain depth, he dialled again. “Hear that!” he cried triumphantly. He scrabbled down to the ringing sound, tossing filthy rubbish over his shoulder.

“Got it!” he cried at last. “Let’s get back into shelter. This is grand.” He seized hold of Josie and waltzed her round on top of the garbage.

Josie walked back to the Land Rover as if she were walking on air. “We’ll get back to Lochdubh, dry out, and I’ll get you something to eat,” said Hamish once they were in shelter again. “Let me check this phone. What was the last call he made? Here, write this down.”

Josie took out her notebook and wrote down the number. “Right,” said Hamish. “Give it to me. Let’s phone up and see who’s at the other end.”

He dialled and waited. A clear highland voice came on the line. “Town hall, Braikie,” said the voice. “Which department?”

Hamish rang off, his hazel eyes gleaming. “That was the town hall. Maybe young Percy is deeper in this than I thought.” He bagged Mark’s mobile and stripped off his pair of latex gloves.

“I’m afraid we’d better take this over to Strathbane first. I’ll blast the heater and dry us out.”

Jimmy was just about to go out when they arrived. He wrinkled his nose. “You pair smell like hell.”

Hamish held up the evidence bag. “We’ve found Mark Lussie’s mobile at the council tip. The last call he made was to the town hall. So we’re going to grab at bit to eat and get over there. How are you getting on?”

“I’ve barely started,” complained Jimmy. “Questions and questions from the big yins up to interrogate us all about how we managed to let one murder happen and one dangerous killer escape. Barry’s no loss.”

“Who inherits his money?” asked Hamish.

“Probably the state will take most of it like they always do when someone has been profiting from drugs. His only living relative is his sister, a churchy woman, who’s horrified at her brother’s criminal activities. Got to go. Give me that phone and I’ll get it over to forensics.”

Hamish and Josie drove to a restaurant in Strathbane. A woman at the next table said loudly, “The day when policemen actually took a bath seems to be long over.”

Josie dissolved into giggles.

“We really must smell something awful,” said Hamish. “After this, we’ll get back to Lochdubh and clean up. I’ve got an old uniform I can use. What about you?”

“I’ve got a spare recently,” said Josie.

They had a pleasant meal. Hamish was in high good humour. He felt the case was beginning to break at last.

Josie thought about her mad dream of drugging him. What a silly idea!

At the town hall, Hamish asked to be directed to wherever the switchboard was. He was grateful that the town hall was old-fashioned and didn’t go in for a phone tree-press one for so-and-so, press two for someone else, and so on.

The young girl at the switchboard seemed vaguely familiar. “Police,” he said. “Just a few questions. What is your name?”

“ Iona Sinclair.”

“Have we met? I am Police Constable Hamish Macbeth.”

“I saw you last year at the crowning of the Lammas queen. It was promised to me because Annie had been queen the year before, but she got it again which wasn’t fair.”

Iona was a tall girl in her late teens with hair as red as Hamish’s own, green eyes, and freckled skin. She had the lilting accent of the Outer Hebrides.

“We’re interested in a call that came through here to the switchboard on the evening Mark Lussie was murdered,” said Hamish.

“Well, we close at five o’clock. There were a lot of calls before then. People ask for various departments.”

“Did anyone ask for waste disposal?”

“We get a lot of those. People are always girning on about the evil dustmen, persecuting them because the waste isn’t in the proper bins.”

“Did you know Annie Fleming well?”

“I was at school with her, but she wasn’t popular with the girls. She was too busy chatting up the teachers.”

“Anyone in particular?”

“Harry Massie, the English teacher.”

“Is he still teaching at the school?”

“Last I heard.”

Outside the town hall, Hamish sighed. “Another suspect. Let’s see this English teacher.”

“What about Iona?” asked Josie. “She must have borne a grudge against Annie.”

“I haven’t forgotten her,” said Hamish. “But she doesnae seem the type to know how to put together a sophisticated bomb.”

Harry Massie was a tall, rangy man in his late thirties. He had thick brown hair, a beaky nose, and a small mouth. He was wearing corduroy trousers and a well-worn Harris tweed jacket over a checked shirt open at the neck.

“We want to ask you about Annie Fleming,” said Hamish.

Josie got an inner glow. Hamish was beginning to say we.

“Poor girl. Any idea who did it?”

“Not as yet. I must ask you this: Did Annie Fleming make a pass at you?”

“By all that’s holy, someone who doesn’t think she was a saint. Yes, she did.”

“Explain what happened.”

The classroom smelled of chalk, sweat, and dust. Outside the wind howled and screeched.

Harry leaned on his desk. “Annie was very good at English. Then she started waiting in the classroom until the others had left, asking me questions. I began to feel uneasy because other members of the staff began to tease me about being seen alone with Annie. So I told her that if she had any questions, to put them in writing and leave them on my desk and not to stay behind in the classroom. I was very firm with her. I held the door open for her and she…she stuck her tongue in my ear.

“I told her I would report her and she laughed and said who would ever believe me and if I didn’t keep my mouth shut she would report me for having tried to rape her. I felt nothing but relief when she left the school for good.”

“Who’s the chemistry teacher here?”

“Sol Queen. But I hardly think…”

“Where can we find him?” asked Hamish.

Harry glanced at his watch. “He’ll be in the staff room having a break. I’ll take you along.”

Various teachers were standing at an open window in the staff room, smoking and braving the gale that was blowing in.

“Sol,” said Harry. “The police want a word with you.”

An elderly teacher turned around. He had sparse grey hair and thick glasses. “We can’t talk here,” he said. “Come outside.”

Josie and Hamish followed him into the corridor. “What is it?” he asked, peering myopically up at Hamish. Hamish thought that Annie could hardly have made a pass at this elderly gentleman, so he asked instead, “Is there anyone you can think of who might have the expertise to make a letter bomb?”

“Funnily enough, I’ve thought of that. But I cannot think of anyone at all-apart from me. I mean, I would know which chemicals to use, but I would not know how to install the fuse. That takes a lot of sophisticated knowledge.”

Hamish had a sudden idea. “Do you have computer classes in the school?”

“No. We were supposed to get them, but there is so much else needing to be done here. The roof’s in need of repair and it would mean finding extra money over the cost of the computers to hire another teacher.”

Hamish thanked him and then, as they walked towards the entrance, he phoned Jimmy. “Did forensics go through Annie’s computer?”

“She didnae have one,” said Jimmy. “Her father says that computers are the instruments o’ the devil. They searched the one at the wildlife place but nothing but business on it.”

Hamish rang off. “I can’t think of any young person who didn’t use the Internet,” he said. “There’s that new Internet café, just off the main street. Let’s try there.”

The Internet café was run by a Pole, Lech Nowak, and the place was full of Polish accents as other immigrants e-mailed home.

Hamish asked whether Annie Fleming had ever used the café. “The girl that was murdered? No, she never came in here,” said Lech.

Another possible lead gone, thought Hamish gloomily.

The café sold snacks, so Hamish suggested they should both eat something. He hoped his pets were all right back at the police station. He was worried that the hit man might call back to finish the job and shoot the animals.

After they had finished eating, Hamish said, “I’m going back to that minister’s. I know the parents have probably been interrogated but I want to speak to them myself. But I would like you to go back to the town hall and have a talk with Percy Stane. Make a friend of him. Sympathise. See if you can get anything more out of him and in a roundabout way, see if he got any phone calls from Mark.”

Hamish was not looking forward to interviewing the Flemings. What sort of parents had produced such a manipulative drug-taking daughter?

Chapter Seven

In for a penny, in for a pound-

It’s Love that makes the world go round!

– W. S. Gilbert

Josie didn’t get much out of Percy. He protested that he had never even met Mark Lussie, nor had he received any phone call. Josie tried to trick him by lying and saying she knew he had received a call from Mark Lussie, whereupon the usually rabbit-like Percy had rallied, telling her that she was lying and he would put in an immediate complaint about police harassment. Alarmed, Josie protested that perhaps she had received false information, but Percy simply held the office door open for her and told her to go.

The early northern night had fallen, and the wind whipped clouds across a cold little moon overhead.

Josie suddenly had an idea. She would get a taxi, go back to Lochdubh, clean up the police station, and have a hot supper waiting for Hamish when he returned.

Hamish, meanwhile, was facing Mr. and Mrs. Fleming. He had expected to confront a pair of parental tyrants but found Annie’s mother and father to be decent, ordinary, and grief-stricken.

“I believe, if you don’t mind my saying so,” said Hamish, “that you appear to have been rather strict with your daughter.”

“We only did it for her own good,” said Mr. Fleming. “She never protested. She was a good girl. I won’t believe all those nasty stories that folk are circulating about her.”

“Annie did have drugs on her body,” said Hamish.

“Someone must have tricked her. We brought her up to fear the Lord and do the right thing.”

Hamish turned his attention to Mrs. Fleming. She was in her late fifties, and he judged she must have had a baby later in life than most mothers. Her face had the drained, exhausted look of someone who has been crying for days.

“Mrs. Fleming,” asked Hamish, “do you know of any particular friends she might have had?”

“No, she didn’t socialise much with the young people from the church. She seemed happier with our friends when we had them round for tea.” Hamish guessed that tea meant high tea, still served in the north in a lot of households instead of dinner.

“May I have the names of your friends?”

“Well, there’s the Baxters.”

“That would be your neighbours-Cora and Jamie Baxter?”

“That’s right. And also old Mrs. McGirty. Mr. and Mrs. Tallent, of course. We all got on very well and Annie appeared to enjoy their company.”

“The minister seemed to have been fond of Annie.”

“He was so good. He pointed out the dangers a young person in this day and age could be subjected to. He even gave Annie private religious instruction.”

“How often?”

“Sometimes twice a week in the evenings.”

“And did this go on until her death?”

“No. Mr. Tallent said he had to give up the instruction because of the weight of parish duties.”

Hamish made notes and asked several more questions. Then he asked, “Is Mr. Tallent at home?”

“I believe he is at the church,” said Mr. Fleming.

Hamish walked to the low stone church next door. He opened the door and went in. It was a small kirk with pine pews and a stone-flagged floor. It was very cold. He remembered hearing that this was one of the stricter churches. It did not have an organ but made do with a chanter, a man who struck a tuning fork against one of the pews to introduce the hymn singing. He saw the huddled figure of the minister in a front pew. He was seated with his head buried in his hands.

Hamish went up to him. Although Mr. Tallent must have heard the sound Hamish’s boots made on the stone floor, he did not move.

Hamish laid a hand on his shoulder and said quietly, “I need to be having another word with you, Minister. It’s about that private religious instruction you were giving Annie.”

Mr. Tallent raised his head. “I tried to protect Annie from this sinful world but she must have been corrupted by that creature Jake.”

“I think Annie was quite good at corrupting people herself. Did she come on to you?” asked Hamish.

“What a disgusting suggestion!” raged the minister.

Hamish sat down beside him in the pew. “Look here,” he said gently, “Annie was verra manipulative and she liked power. I think she made you fall in love with her. I think your conscience got the better o’ ye and you stopped the lessons.”

“She confessed to an admiration for me,” said Mr. Tallent after a long silence. “I was sinfully flattered. I became impatient with my wife. I nearly lost my faith. Yes, I stopped the classes and said I would only see her in the kirk. She shrugged. Then she laughed at me and called me a silly old goat.” Tears began to run unchecked down his cheeks. “I went a bit mad. I even thought of killing her. But I didn’t. Believe me, Sergeant, I wouldn’t know how to begin to make a letter bomb.

“Does any of this have to come out? It would devastate my wife and daughter. And the scandal!”

“Chust so long as I don’t find any proof linking you with the murder, I’ll keep quiet,” said Hamish, feeling embarrassed faced with the man’s grief and shame.

When he got out of the Land Rover in front of the police station, he found Willie Lamont waiting for him with the dog and cat at his heels. Willie had once been a policeman, working for Hamish, but he had fallen in love and married the beautiful daughter of the owner of the Italian restaurant and had gone happily into the catering trade.

“What’s up, Willie?” asked Hamish.

“Sonsie and Lugs were around the restaurant and I thought it was time to bring them hame.”

“You know where the key is, Willie. You shouldnae be standing here in the cold.”

“I don’t know where the key is. I tried the door but it’s locked. There’s someone inside moving about and that big cat flap is jammed shut.”

Hamish took out his own key and snapped open his baton. “Stand back, Willie,” he said quietly.

He quietly unlocked the door. Josie was standing over the stove, wearing a frilly apron over a short black dress and high heels.

“What in God’s name do you think you’re playing at, McSween?” roared Hamish. He swung round and looked down at the cat flap. It had been taped shut. “And why are my poor beasties out in the cold?”

“I-I th-thought it would be great to take you a meal and give the place a bit of a clean,” wailed Josie.

“Out!” shouted Hamish. “Get the hell oot o’ here and neffer, effer do anything like this again. Shoo! Get lost.”

Josie burst into tears. She seized her coat from a chair and ran out into the night.

“Wimmin,” said Hamish, taking out a clasp knife and beginning to slice the tape on the cat flap.

“Och, you was awfy hard,” said Willie. “The lassie meant well. Look how clean the place is.”

“It’s my home,” said Hamish. “Thanks for looking after my beasts, Willie.”

Willie left but Hamish was not to be left in peace for long. A wrathful Mrs. Wellington descended on him. “That poor girl is crying her eyes out, you brute. Instead of thanking her, all you did was shout at her.”

“She had no right to just invade my home-”

“It’s not a home. It’s a police station.”

“It iss my home. She shut my animals out in the cold.”

“What you need is a decent woman in your life. You will take Josie to that dance tomorrow and behave like a gentleman.”

Hamish refused to go to the manse with Mrs. Wellington and apologise. To Mrs. Wellington, Josie was the daughter she never had. She could not bear to see her so upset and so she lied and said that Hamish was really sorry and was looking forward to the dance.

When Josie went up to her room that night, she fished a bottle of whisky out from under her mattress and began to drink steadily. She had loved being in charge of the police station. She wanted to get married and never have to work as a policewoman again. As the whisky sank down the bottle, she came to a decision. She shook out tablets of Mandrax and, with the hilt of a knife, began to crush them into powder.

Hamish decided to take the Saturday off. He hoped as he went around his property, seeing to his sheep and hens, and making some repairs, that his mind might clear. He had too many suspects, all whirling around his brain.

After lunch, he walked along to visit his friend Angela Brodie, the doctor’s wife.

“Come in, Hamish,” said Angela. “It’s all round the village that your poor policewoman was just trying to give the place a bit of a cleanup and make you supper, and you shouted the place down.”

“Angela, she locked my animals out in the cold. I’m investigating the murder of Annie Fleming who seems to ha’ been one manipulative bitch and I don’t want to have to deal with another one.”

“Now, that’s too harsh. She seems like a nice girl.”

“Oh, well, maybe I did go a bit over the top. The truth is, I got a real fright. I’m always worried that Roger Burton, the hit man, might come back to finish the job. Could you be looking after Sonsie and Lugs while I’m at the dance?”

“Didn’t you stop to think I might be going to the dance myself?”

“No, sorry.”

“Okay. Just this once. As it happens, I’m not going. How’s the murder investigation?”

“It’s a right mess. Too many suspects. If ever a girl was just asking to be murdered by some man, it was Annie Fleming.”

“Have a coffee and tell me all about it.”

So in between sips of Angela’s horrible coffee, Hamish outlined all that he had found out so far.

When he had finished, Angela said, “You’re concentrating on the men. Have you considered the women? I mean, you’d expect a man to bash her over the head or strangle her. Making a letter bomb takes time and plotting and planning. Your murderer might be one very jealous woman. There was a lot of ill feeling when Annie was elected to be the Lammas queen two times running. She could have put someone’s nose out of joint. To be Lammas queen means getting on TV and being interviewed and photographed in all the local papers. A lot of young people these days want instant fame without doing anything to get it. It’s all the fault of reality TV.”

“I’ll think about it. But right now, Angela, my poor head can’t bear the thought of any more suspects.”

Hamish had phoned the manse and said that he would meet Josie at the dance. He dressed in casual clothes and, followed by Sonsie and Lugs, walked along to Angela’s house.

“You’re a bit late,” said Angela.

“I’m reluctant,” said Hamish. “I’ll only go for a few dances and then clear off.”

“Josie’s quite pretty, you know.”

“Maybe I’m being hard on her, but there’s something awfy needy about her.”

“Male vanity, Hamish. That’s all it is. Now get along to that dance!”

Josie had refused all offers to dance. Her dreams of being held in Hamish’s arms had been shattered. It was to be an evening of Scottish country dancing and the hall was loud with the drumming of feet and the hoochs of the dancers as they swung one another around. Josie felt overdressed. Nearly everyone was wearing casual clothes whereas she was dressed in a short skirt with a plunging sequinned blouse and very high heels.

At last, she saw Hamish’s flaming-red head across the dance floor. Just as he came up to her, an Eightsome Reel was announced. “Shall we?” asked Hamish.

They joined a set and the band of fiddles, drums, and accordion struck up. Josie realised quickly the folly of wearing such high heels. She thought her ankles might break.

When the dance was over, Hamish said, “I could do with a drink. What about you?”

Josie picked up her evening bag from where she had left it and said eagerly, “That would be grand.”

There were only soft drinks on offer. “Orange juice?” suggested Hamish.

“Yes, thank you.” There was no barman. People just helped themselves. Hamish poured out two tumblers of orange juice and was about to hand one to Josie when Freda Campbell, the schoolteacher, came up just as a Strip the Willow was being announced. “Come on, you lazy copper,” she said. “This is my dance.”

“All right,” said Hamish. “But where’s your man?”

“Matthew’s working late.” Matthew was the editor of the Highland Times.

Josie watched as Hamish led Freda into the dance. Her eyes narrowed. She could have sworn Freda was flirting with him. She fished in her bag, took out the screw of paper containing the powdered Mandrax, and slipped it into one of the glasses of orange juice.

The energetic dance seemed to go on forever. Hamish crossed hands with Freda and danced down the line with Freda laughing up at him. Hamish may have been a lousy disco dancer but he was in his element when it came to Scottish country dancing.

At last it was over and Hamish and a big crowd approached the refreshment table. “Ah, orange juice. Just what I need,” boomed Mrs. Wellington. To Josie’s horror, she seized Hamish’s doctored drink and gulped it down.

A Gay Gordons was announced. Hamish turned reluctantly to Josie, but Archie Maclean came up and whispered, “Outside, Hamish.”

“Be back in a minute, Josie,” said Hamish. He followed Archie outside, where men were gathered passing whisky around.

Hamish stood chatting and drinking until there appeared four youths, helping a dazed Mrs. Wellington from the hall. “She’s come over faint,” said one. “We’re just going to run her up to the manse.”

Josie appeared and said hurriedly, “I’d better go with her and make sure she’s all right.”

What if they called Dr. Brodie, worried Josie. He might suspect she had been drugged and order a blood test.

At the manse, Mrs. Wellington was heaved upstairs and laid on her bed. “I think I know what the matter must be,” said the minister. “My wife sometimes takes a sleeping pill and she takes high blood pressure medicine as well. She must have mixed up her pills.”

Josie felt a wave of relief. “If you think she’ll be all right, I’ll just go back to the dance.”

But when she returned to the hall, it was to find that Hamish had left. “Where’s Hamish gone?” Josie asked Archie Maclean.

“Och, when you werenae here, herself, Miss Halburton-Smythe, turned up and she and Hamish went off together.”

Josie felt outraged. How dare he! But there was still time to put her plan into action. She had Mandrax pills left. If she let herself into the police station and doctored a glass of whisky and left it on the kitchen table, with any luck Hamish might have a nightcap. If by any chance Hamish and Priscilla were there, well, she had an excuse. She could say she was calling to find out why he had left the dance so early.

Hamish was seated in the bar of the Tommel Castle Hotel, looking gloomily at Priscilla.

“Why Australia?” he asked.

“I’m a computer programmer, Hamish,” said Priscilla patiently. “The firm I was contracted to outsourced all the work to India and it’s happening all over London. I’ve got a chance of this job in Sydney. I love Sydney.”

“It’s awfy far away,” said Hamish miserably. “The hotel’s doing great. It’s not as if you have to work.”

“Hamish, ever since Daddy lost all his money and we had to turn our home into this hotel, I’ve liked to make my own money just in case Daddy decides to play the stock market again. I’m lucky to get such a good job in the middle of a recession. Didn’t you go to the dance with your policewoman?”

“I was bullied into it by Mrs. Wellington. I wish Josie McSween would just pack up and go back to Strathbane.”

“Why? She seems a nice enough girl.”

“There’s something clingy about her and she’s a rotten officer. She should never ha’ joined the police force.”

“So where are you in the case?”

“Nowhere-except for an idea of Angela’s. I’ve been checking up on all the men in the case. She suggests it might have been some woman.”

“I can see the wisdom of that. A jealous woman will go to any lengths.”

“Could you put me up for the night, Priscilla? I’ve a feeling if I go back home, Josie will be waiting for me.”

“I’ll find you something.”

Josie put the crushed tablets in a glass of whisky and placed it on the kitchen table. She stirred the contents with a spoon. Now, she thought, let’s hope he drinks it. I’ll come back around two in the morning and hope he’s asleep. She thought it a rare bit of luck that Hamish’s pets were away somewhere. She made her way back to the manse over the fields at the back so that no one would see her. At one point, she stopped and listened. She had an odd feeling of being watched. The night was still and cold. She hurried on, anxious to get to her room and to a bracing glass of whisky.

Roger Burton, crouched behind a dry-stone wall, watched her go. He had returned to finish the job of getting rid of Hamish. He felt his reputation was at stake. It had got around the criminal fraternity in Glasgow that the hard man, Roger, had been attacked by a cat.

Now he was primed and ready to kill not only Hamish but those wretched animals of his as well.

He eased his way down the back slope to the station. It was in darkness. He tried the door and then grinned. It was unlocked. He threw it open, rifle at the ready.

Silence.

He fumbled for the light and switched it on. He rapidly searched the small station. No Hamish. No animals.

He sat down at the kitchen table, facing the door, rifle at the ready. He saw the glass of whisky in front of him. Just the thing. He usually never drank until the job was over, but one wouldn’t hurt. He drank it down, wrinkling his nose at the taste and wondering whether it was moonshine from one of the illegal stills he believed to be up in the hills.

Then Roger began to feel so very sleepy. The hallucinatory effect of the drug began to take over. He felt he was back in his own flat in East Glasgow. He stumbled through to the bedroom, stripped off his clothes, crawled into Hamish’s bed, and fell asleep.

At two in the morning, Josie quietly made her way back to the police station. She frowned when she found the door unlocked. She should have remembered to lock it. She let herself in and switched on the light. The first thing she saw was the empty whisky glass on the table. Josie picked it up and scowled down at the remnants of white powder at the bottom of the glass. If Hamish saw that, he’d get it analysed. She rinsed it out, dried it, and put it up on the shelf with the others.

Now for action!

She went quietly into the bedroom. Her foot struck something on the floor. She looked down and found herself staring at a rifle. She switched on the bedroom light. Josie did not recognise Roger although after the murder of Barry his photograph had been in all the papers and he was lying with his face half buried in the pillow. She only knew it was not Hamish and let out a gasp of dismay.

Josie ran from the police station as if the hounds of hell were after her.

In the morning, Angela stopped outside the police station and said to Sonsie and Lugs, “Off you go.”

She watched until they had both disappeared through the large cat flap and then turned and walked away along the waterfront.

A sharp bark awoke Roger. He groggily struggled awake. The there was a menacing hiss. His startled eyes saw that damn cat staring at him, fur raised.

With a cry of terror, he leapt for the bed and straight for the kitchen door. The cat leapt on his back, digging her claws in. He howled and shook her off and, with blood running down his naked back, he fled along the waterfront to the alarm and amazement of the villagers out doing their morning shopping.

Nessie Currie was just about to get into her old Ford when a naked Roger dragged her from the car and dumped her on the road. Then he drove off, leaving her screaming.

Hamish was enjoying a leisurely breakfast at the hotel when he heard the news. He jumped in the Land Rover and set off in pursuit. He called Strathbane for backup. Roadblocks were hurriedly set up. All day long the search went on but Roger appeared to have disappeared into thin air.

How on earth could a bloody naked man just vanish?

It was only by evening when Nessie was coherent enough to be interviewed and the sedative Dr. Brodie had given her had worn off that she revealed she had been about to take a bundle of secondhand clothes from the village to a charity shop in Strathbane. When the report then came in from a man outside Inverness that a large woman had stolen his van, they realised that Roger had stopped to put on women’s clothes and a big felt hat, formerly the property of Mrs. Wellington. The van had a full tank of petrol and two spare tanks in the back. Nessie’s car was found dumped in a back street in Inverness.

The story was in all the newspapers the next morning. The comic side of it was fully exposed.

Here was a dreaded hit man who had gone to sleep in a police station, been attacked by a cat, run through the village naked, and escaped dressed as a woman.

Only Josie knew what had happened. She thanked her stars she had been wearing gloves when she had left the whisky.

Roger sat in his dingy flat and cursed his luck. Everything had been left behind: his false papers, false credit cards, mobile phone, and prized deer rifle, not to mention his car.

Two days later, he looked out of his window and saw a low black Mercedes stopping outside his flat. His heart sank as he saw crime boss Big Shug climbing out of the car.

Roger shoved a pistol in the waistband of his trousers and went to open the door.

Big Shug looked like a prosperous Glasgow businessman from his well-tailored coat to his shining shoes.

“Been reading about me, have ye?” asked Roger. “Come in.”

“I don’t go much by what the papers say,” said Big Shug. “But I’ve got a difficult job and I want you to off someone for me.”

Roger said cautiously, “Are you sure the person you want to off isnae me?”

“Come on, laddie. When have I ever let you down? This is a delicate one. It’s a woman. Anything against that?”

“Not a thing.”

“Why did you kill Barry?”

“He would have talked and the drugs would have been traced right back to you.”

“Aye, well, let’s get going.”

“Now?”

“No time like the present.”

“Who is she?”

“Tell you when we get there.”

Big Shug sat in the front with his driver and Roger sat in the back with one of his henchmen. No introductions were made. The Mercedes slid smoothly off.

“Where are we going?” asked Roger as the car began to drive along the Dumbarton dual carriageway.

“Relax, laddie. A wee bit before Helensburgh.”

A thin mist was hovering over the Gairloch as the Mercedes slid into a deserted building site. “Where is she?” asked Roger as he got out of the car.

“Along presently.”

Big Shug whipped a gun out and shot Roger in the stomach. “That’s one for Barry,” he said. “He was a pal o’ mine and he never would ha’ talked.”

He marched up to where Roger lay writhing on the ground and put two bullets into his head.

“Right, lads,” he said. “Get to work. This site’s held up forever waiting planning permission. Nobody’ll be along here for ages.”

His two henchmen dug a grave in the soft ground, dropped the body in, filled in the hole, and patted it flat with the backs of their spades.

They all got into the Mercedes and drove off.

Two little boys crouched behind a rickety wall of planks, having seen the whole thing. Rory Mackenzie was eight years old and his brother, Diarmuid, ten. “Do you think yon was real?” whispered Rory. “Maybe they was filming Taggart.” He was referring to a popular Scottish television crime series.

“I think we’d better tell the police anyway.” Diarmuid took out his much-prized mobile phone and dialled 999.

Chapter Eight

Love is like a dizziness,

It winna let a poor body

Gang about his bizziness.

– James Hogg

The murders of Mark Lussie and Annie Fleming had disappeared from the newspapers and from any of Strathbane’s investigations. Hamish greeted the news of Roger Burton’s murder with relief. It was Strathclyde’s case, and, as he alone was still determined to solve the local murders, he was happy to let them get on with it.

Strathbane was a violent town, and the police were used to having unsolved murders on their books.

Josie begged leave to visit her mother, and Hamish let her go. Flora McSween welcomed her daughter and asked how her “romance” with Hamish was getting on.

Josie said that Hamish had taken her to a local dance, and Flora eagerly begged for details. Not wanting to disappoint her mother, Josie gave a highly embroidered account full of “speaking glances” and “warm clasped hands,” which, to a less woolly-minded romantic than her mother, would have sounded like something out of the pages of a Victorian novel.

But as she talked, Josie’s imagination, fuelled by a generous glass of whisky, began to make her lies become reality. Acute jealousy made her think of Priscilla as a rival, although she did not tell her mother that Hamish had gone off with Priscilla and had not returned until the following day.

Then Flora said, “I’ve been meaning to throw a lot of old stuff out of the attic. It’s been up there for years and years. Some of it’s even your Great-Great Aunt Polly’s belongings. I know they’re a part of family history but I thought some of the old clothes could go to the local dramatic society.”

“I’ll have a look tomorrow,” said Josie.

On the following morning, Josie, nursing a hangover, climbed up to the attic, a small room at the top of the Victorian house which had once been used by a maid. Her mother followed her. “Look at all this stuff,” said Flora. “What I want you to do, pet, is take a look through it and see if there’s anything you want. I phoned the dramatic society and a couple are coming around this afternoon. I’ll leave you to it.”

Josie sat down and gloomily surveyed the jumble piled up around the room. Her mother had already labelled several of the old steamer trunks CLOTHES, PHOTOGRAPHS, and SHOES.

Feeling she could not really be bothered and wondering whether her mother had any Alka-Seltzer in the house, Josie decided to sit as long as she could, nursing her hangover, and then say there was nothing she wanted. She had no interest in family history. There were plenty of photographs downstairs of her late father whom she dimly remembered from her childhood as being an angry violent man, particularly on Friday evenings when he came back from the pub.

Her eyes fell on an old desk in the corner. It had a square wooden box on the top. Josie rose to her feet. Her mother had not said anything about jewellery. But perhaps there might be something valuable in there.

She opened the lid. It was full of old bottles of medicine and pillboxes. She was about to close the lid again when she noticed that one dark green bottle with a stoppered top had fallen on its side. It was labelled LAUDANUM. She lifted it out. It was full. She remembered reading in historical romances that laudanum was tincture of opium. She looked down into the jumble of medicines and found another bottle, also full.

After her failure to drug Hamish, she had vowed she would never, ever do anything so crazy again. But…maybe she would take them. You never knew…

Hamish meanwhile had set out to interview all the women in the case again. He was having a hard time with Cora Baxter, who seemed to think it the height of impertinence that a lowly police sergeant should dare to question a councillor’s wife. Hamish first asked her if she had visited the town hall on the evening Mark Lussie was murdered and then asked her if she had, or if she knew anyone who had, a knowledge of chemistry.

Her formidable bosom heaved. “Are you daring to suggest that I had anything to do with Annie’s murder? I shall report you to your superiors.”

“By all means,” said Hamish, hoping she would do so and that his sergeant’s stripes would be removed along with Josie. “I am simply-”

The door to the living room crashed open and Jamie Baxter strode in. “What’s going on here?”

“Oh, Jamie,” wailed Cora. “This terrible man is accusing me of murder!”

“This is too much, Macbeth,” said Jamie. “Get out of here this minute and don’t ever bother my poor wife again.”

Hamish tried to protest that he was only doing his duty but he was firmly shown the door.

He trudged along to Mrs. McGirty’s. As the frail old lady answered his knock, Hamish realised that she was the last person in the world to make a letter bomb, but maybe she heard useful gossip.

“Come in,” said Mrs. McGirty. “I’ll put the kettle on. Go into the living room and take a seat.”

He was glad to see she had a real fire. He remembered his mother telling him that at one time when the Hydro Electric Board had started up, the Highlands were promised cheap electricity. Fireplaces were blocked up and electric fires placed in front of them: old oil lamps which now would fetch a good bit of money in some auction room were tossed out with the rubbish. The electricity turned out to be expensive but a lot of people kept the electric fires, the house-proud ladies of the Highlands claiming that peat and coal fires caused dust.

The small room was cluttered and cosy, the sofa and armchair being covered in paisley-patterned cotton slipcovers. There was a highland scene above the fireplace, darkened by years of smoke from the coal fire.

Mrs. McGirty came in carrying a laden tray. “Now there’s tea and some of my scones, Mr. Macbeth. Help yourself.”

Hamish did, realising he was hungry. When he had drunk two cups of tea and eaten two scones, in between times talking about the weather, he asked, “Have you heard any gossip in the town about anyone who might have wanted to murder Annie?”

“Too much gossip,” said Mrs. McGirty, shaking her old head. “Quite terrible it is. Who would have thought that Annie Fleming was so bad? Folks have only just started telling me about her.”

“The thing is,” said Hamish, “thon letter bomb would have to have been made by someone with a knowledge of chemistry.”

“Maybe not.” The old lady’s shrewd eyes looked up at him. “You can get all the information on stuff like that off the Internet these days.”

“How do you know?”

“I looked it up myself. I have the computer. That way I keep in touch with the relatives in Canada.”

“But where would anyone get the chemicals?”

“They’re easily come by. Any schoolboy could probably pinch them out of the laboratory at school.”

Hamish stared at her, his cup of tea halfway to his mouth. Sol Queen, the chemistry teacher, was too sane, too old, and too respectable. But what about a schoolboy? Annie had only really been interested in older men, except that she had wound up with Mark Lussie and Percy Stane.

He put his cup down in the saucer. “Did you see Bill Freemont visiting Annie when her parents were out?”

“I saw his van outside and then after a bit I saw him come out of the house and get into it. I never thought one bad thing. I only thought it was nice of her boss to call on her when she was off sick.”

“No one else?”

“Not that I know. But I spend a lot of time on the computer. It’s the great thing for an old body like me.”

“I have so many suspects my head’s in a whirl,” said Hamish. “But there was some phone call from Mark to the town hall before he died.”

“Maybe the girl on the switchboard could help.”

“ Iona Sinclair? I’m afraid not. She gets so many calls asking to be put through to one department or another.”

“I did hear there was a bit of a row over Annie being the Lammas queen two years running. Iona was bitter, folk are saying. But, och, it is terrible in the town with everyone hinting that it could be this one or that one.”

“I forgot to ask Iona,” said Hamish, “if there is someone who relieves her at the switchboard. I mean, what happens when she goes for lunch?”

“The town hall shuts between one and two.”

“But say she wanted to go to the ladies’ room?”

“You’ll just need to ask.”

When Hamish left her, he looked at his watch. It was just before one o’clock. He sped off to the town hall and parked outside.

He waited, hoping that Iona would emerge and not settle for sandwiches at her desk. When he saw her come out, he jumped down from the Land Rover and went to meet her.

“ Iona! I would like to be having a wee word with you. What about lunch?”

“Wouldn’t mind. I usually go to Jeannie’s in the High Street.” Jeannie’s was a café run by a bad-tempered matron but popular because of the good quality of the snacks she served.

They both ordered Welsh rarebit and a pot of tea. “Now, Iona,” began Hamish, “what happens when you have to leave the switchboard? Who relieves you?”

“Anyone who happens to be passing. Or I phone someone like, say, Jessie Cormack and ask her if she would mind taking over while I have a pee.”

“So,” said Hamish, “let’s go back to the day Mark Lussie was murdered. Just before you closed for the evening, did anyone take over for you?”

She wrinkled her brow. Then her face cleared. “Oh, I mind fine. I was bursting and Mrs. Baxter was just coming out of her husband’s office. So I called to her and asked if Jessie was very busy because I had to go to the loo and herself says, ‘Run along. I’ll do the board for you.’ ”

“You’re sure about that?”

“ ’Course I’m sure. I’m hardly likely to forget Mrs. High and Mighty stooping to help someone like me out.”

“But you didnae say anything about this when I first questioned you.”

“You were asking me about calls I put through and it fair flustered me and I forgot about Mrs. Baxter.”

“I heard you were bitter about Annie being made Lammas queen two years running,” said Hamish.

“I was right furious. I went around swearing I’d kill the conniving bitch.” Iona turned red. “I didn’t, mind. I wouldn’t. The provost, Mr. Tarry, got to hear about my complaints and he sent for me and told me if I wanted to keep my job, I’d better shut up. He said the council had voted unanimously for Annie. Annie flirted with anything in trousers. She probably went out of her way to make sure she’d be elected.”

Hamish drove her back to the town hall and then braced himself to go and confront Cora again. To his relief, he saw that her husband’s car was no longer outside the house.

The curtain twitched as he walked up the front path and rang the bell.

Cora answered the door, her well-upholstered bosom heaving with outrage. “You dare to come here again!”

“Now, now,” said Hamish soothingly. “We may haff got off on the wrong foot. I haff chust learned that on the day Mark Lussie was murdered, you took over the switchboard for a wee while. I need to ask you about that for, you see, the last call Mark Lussie made was to the town hall.”

She stared at him with those eyes of hers which were like Scottish pebbles and then said abruptly, “You’d better come in.”

Hamish followed her back into the living room and removed his cap.

“Sit down,” she barked.

Hamish sat down on a leather armchair, which welcomed him with the usual rude sound.

“Can you remember any calls?” he asked.

“Nothing in particular.”

“It would have come from someone who sounded like Mark-a young person.”

“There was a call to be put through to town planning-that was a woman-and one for health and safety-that was a man, not young-and one for waste disposal. The one for waste disposal sounded young. That’s all I can remember.”

Hamish took out his notebook and checked it. “Waste disposal. That would be Percy Stane.”

“Yes, that’s him.”

“Did any of the callers ask for anyone by name?”

“No, just the department.”

“Not many people would know how to operate an old-fashioned switchboard like the one at the town hall.”

“I was a secretary at the town hall before I married my husband. I used to fill in on the switchboard. If you have no more questions, I may warn you,” she said as Hamish headed for the door, “that my husband has already reported you to Superintendent Daviot.”

“Oh, good,” said Hamish, and he left her staring after him.

Hamish went to the town hall and walked into Percy Stane’s office. Percy looked up at him, his eyes wide with fear like a trapped animal’s.

“I’ve told you all I know,” he blurted out.

“There might be something you have forgotten,” said Hamish. “Look, try to remember the day Mark Lussie died. Did you get a phone call?”

“I didn’t know him all that well. I wouldn’t know his voice.”

Percy wrinkled his brow in thought. Then his face cleared. “There was the one call. When I said, ‘Waste Disposal,’ the voice said, ‘Wrong department. Put me back to the switchboard.’ ”

“Man or woman?”

“A man. Maybe young. He didn’t say which department he really wanted.”

“Keep thinking about it and if you remember anything at all, here’s my card. Give me a call. Do you know if the provost is in his office?”

“He’ll be at the bank.”

Hamish walked out to the main street and along to the West Highland Bank where Gareth Tarry, the provost, was the manager.

He was told to wait. Hamish waited and waited. He wondered whether the provost was really busy or simply one of those irritating people who like to show off their authority.

At last, he was ushered in. “I’m very busy, Sergeant,” he said, “and I don’t see how I can be of any help to you.”

“How come Annie Fleming was elected Lammas queen two years running?”

“It was put to a vote. A secret ballot. There are ten councillors and all of them voted for Annie.”

“That’s odd, considering some of them hae daughters of their own.”

“I can prove it! I still have the ballot papers.”

“Where?” asked Hamish. “At the town hall?”

“No, in my safe here. Wait a moment. I just shoved the box in there. I’m more here than at the town hall and so I keep a lot of official stuff in the safe.”

He rose, went to a large safe in a corner of his office, and fiddled with the combination. He bent down and scrabbled about on the inside, finally lifting out a square wooden box with a slot in the top. “I need the key,” he muttered. He went to his desk and searched through the drawers, finally producing a small brass key.

He placed the box on his desk and unlocked it. “See for yourself.”

Hamish took out several of the folded ballot papers and opened them. His eyebrows rose up to his hairline in surprise. “These are all typed! That’s odd. You’d think they’d just scribble a name. Why go to the bother of typing it? Did you vote?”

“No, I never vote unless a casting vote is needed.”

“Weren’t the councillors surprised when you said the vote was unanimous?”

“I simply told them that Annie had been voted for.”

“Who’s the nearest councillor to here?”

“There’s Garry Herriot. He runs the ironmonger.”

Garry Herriot was a small, prim man dressed in a brown overall. He had very pale grey eyes.

“Mr. Herriot,” Hamish began, “can you tell me who you voted for to be Lammas queen last year?”

“I voted for Iona, the lassie on the switchboard.”

“Would it surprise you to learn that all ten votes were for Annie Fleming?”

“Yes, it would. I happen to know of two others who voted for Iona. What happened?”

“One of you got into that ballot box and put in a list of typed votes for Annie. Did you type yours?”

“No, I just wrote Iona ’s name on the slip of paper and popped it in the box. But the box was on the provost’s desk and it was locked.”

“Did the provost count out the votes in front of you all?”

“No, he just said Annie had been voted again. We all assumed she’d got the majority of votes.”

“The provost can’t be in the town hall all the time. He must spend most of the day at the bank.”

“His secretary, Alice Menzies, handles all the phone calls and things like that.”

Hamish went back to the town hall and got directions to Alice Menzies’s room. He wondered whether Alice would turn out to be some other highland beauty whose nose had been put out of joint by Annie. But she turned out to be a middle-aged woman in a tweed suit and wearing thick spectacles. Hamish told her about the ballot papers.

“That’s awful,” she said. “But you can stop looking for the culprit. I know who did it.”

At last, thought Hamish.

“It was Annie herself,” said Alice. “She came up here just before the ballots were due to be counted. She said she had an appointment with Mr. Tarry. I told her to go along to the bank but she said the provost had told her to wait in the town hall office. I let her in. She was only there a short time and then she came out and said she must have made a mistake.”

“Where is the key to the ballot box kept? I know the provost locked it up in the safe in the bank.”

“You’ll never believe this. The key was kept in a top drawer of his desk. Annie could have taken it out and unlocked the box.”

“And didn’t you think to report this when the vote was announced?”

She shrugged. “I was so used to all the men drooling over Annie, I didn’t really bother about it.”

“Why did Mr. Tarry take the ballot box to the bank?”

“It was right after the Lammas fair. His office was being decorated. He took a lot of files and the ballot box along to the bank.”

“Were any of the councillors particularly interested in Annie?”

“I don’t know. I mean, she didn’t work here.”

“What did Mr. Tarry say when you told him about her calling here for an interview?”

“It slipped my mind. The appointment wasn’t down in the diary.”

Hamish returned in the evening to his police station, feeling depressed. Josie was waiting for him outside.

“Have a good time in Perth?” asked Hamish.

“Yes, thank you. I wondered what we were going to do tomorrow.”

Hamish thought quickly. He wanted rid of her. “Come in,” he said. He led the way into the office and pointed to a large ordnance survey map on the wall. “I want you to take the Assynt Road between Lochinver and Kylesku. Drop off at each place and ask if everything is all right.”

“Can’t I help you with the murder enquiries?”

“It’s large beat we have to cover. Leave the murder enquiries to me.”

Josie set out the following morning in a sulky mood. But her spirits rose after she left Lochinver and set out on the Assynt Road along the coast. It was a rare calm, sunny day. The Minch lay placid with large glassy waves curling on the shore. She stopped at Drumbeg for a cup of tea and a sandwich, and then stood outside in the car park and breathed in the clear air. The majestic bulk of Quinag mountain rose up to a perfectly blue sky. The majesty of the Highlands seized her for the first time.

I belong here, she thought fiercely-me and Hamish Macbeth.

By the time she reached Kylesku by Loch a’ Chairn Bhain and swept over the new road in the direction of Lairg, she was determined to do everything she could to capture Hamish.

It never entered her mind again that the way to Hamish’s heart might be through some diligent police work. She had not asked at any of the villages along the coast if anyone had anything to report.

By the time early night had fallen, she pulled to the side of the road, her heart beating hard. She fished in her handbag for the half bottle of whisky she had bought earlier and sat drinking and dreaming. She had the two bottles of laudanum with her. When she returned to Lochdubh, if the police station was empty, she would doctor a glass of whisky. If Hamish arrived while she was in the police station, she would simply say that she had called to report on her day.

With a lurch in her stomach, she realised she had not talked to anyone in any of the villages. She could only hope Hamish would not ask for names.

Josie arrived back in Lochdubh at six o’clock. Everyone was indoors having high tea.

She parked at the manse and made her away over the fields at the back to the police station. It was dark and empty. She let herself in, praying that Hamish’s pets were out somewhere. She was in luck. Nothing moved in the silence of the police station. She switched on a pencil torch and took out a fresh bottle of whisky. She took down a glass, put in a generous measure of whisky, and then poured laudanum into the glass and stirred it up.

Then she concealed herself at the side of the henhouse, waiting for Hamish to come home.

She heard the cat flap bang. She hoped one of the animals wouldn’t come out again, sensing her presence. But Sonsie and Lugs were used to Josie by now and knew her smell and didn’t bother to investigate.

The night was becoming frosty and she shivered, hoping Hamish would not be too long.

She heard the Land Rover drive up and Hamish’s voice saying, “Come in, Elspeth. I couldnae believe my eyes when I saw you up at the hotel.”

Elspeth followed Hamish into the kitchen. “I’ll just go into the office and see if there are any messages,” said Hamish.

“I am so tired,” said Elspeth. “I drove all the way from Glasgow. I had to get away.”

“Be with you in a minute,” called Hamish. “There’s a message here from one of my suspects.”

Elspeth sat down wearily at the table. She picked up the glass of whisky and began to drink it. When she finished it, she rinsed out the glass and put it away.

“I’ll light the stove,” she shouted. But she suddenly felt very tired and disoriented. Before her dizzy eyes, she could see the lights of approaching cars that she had seen on her long drive up. She had got to her feet to light the stove, but she sat down again, put her head down on the table, and fell asleep.

Hamish came in and exclaimed, “Poor lassie. You’re fair worn out.”

Josie, crouched outside the kitchen window, saw him lift Elspeth in his arms and carry her through to the bedroom.

She had recognised Elspeth Grant. She had seen her many nights on television. But surely she was no competition. She was going to marry that actor.

Josie stumbled back across the fields. Before she entered the manse, she took a tube of extra-strong mints out of her pocket and began to chew two of them so that Mrs. Wellington would not smell whisky on her breath.

Elspeth awoke the next morning and stared around in a dazed way. She threw back the bedclothes. She was wearing only her underwear. What on earth was she doing in Hamish’s bed?

Her skirt, blouse, and jacket were neatly arranged on a chair beside the bed. She took down Hamish’s dressing gown from a hook at the back of the bedroom door and went in search of him.

Hamish was in the kitchen, notes spread out in front of him. “Morning, Elspeth,” he said. “That must have been some drive. Sit down and I’ll make coffee.”

“I don’t know what happened, Hamish,” said Elspeth. “I helped myself to some of your whisky and then went out like a light.”

“Never mind. You never told me what brought you up here.” There was a tentative knock at the kitchen door. He opened it. Josie stood looking up at him and then past him to where Elspeth was sitting, wrapped in Hamish’s dressing gown. She tried to enter but he blocked her way.

“Take the day off, McSween,” he said. “I’ve got to go over my notes. I’ll phone you if there’s anything.”

The door was firmly shut in Josie’s face.

Josie craved a drink but did not want to buy too much whisky from Mr. Patel in case he gossiped. She got in her car and drove miserably off in the direction of Strathbane.

“So Elspeth,” Hamish was saying. “Out with it.”

She clutched the mug of coffee he had poured for her. “I had to get away from the press.”

“But you are the press. You’re a news presenter.”

“I’ve broken off my engagement. I wanted it all to be quiet but Paul Darby’s press agent got on to all the papers-I am sure with Paul’s encouragement. He’s very vain.”

“So why did you get engaged to him?”

“I was on holiday in the Maldives. All that sun and being away from work and having a handsome man to squire me around. Do you remember when I got jilted at the altar by that fellow?”

“Yes.”

“Well, from time to time, the papers drag that up. I suppose I wanted to show everyone that wee Elspeth Grant could do it. Paul’s a big heartthrob. Of course, he works in England and I work in Scotland, so we had snatched time together, which added to the romance. Then his filming on the soap was over for a bit and he came up and moved in with me. Do you know, Hamish, his cosmetics took up more shelf space than mine?”

“What, make-up?”

“No, lotions and hair tonic and fake tan and God knows what else. There was little room for my clothes because he has such an extensive wardrobe. He expected me to play wifie and have meals ready for him and I just didn’t have the time. I finally gave him back his ring. He tried to punch me so I tripped him up so that he fell on his bum. I told him if he ever laid a finger on me I’d call the police. He stormed off to see his press agent in London so I packed all his stuff up and left it with a neighbour, changed the locks, and left a note for him on the door. I had holiday time owing, so I just got in the car yesterday and drove straight to the Tommel Castle Hotel. I’d better beg Matthew not to put anything in the Highland Times or the press will follow me up here. They’ll find out soon enough, but I want a few days’ peace and quiet.”

“I’ll make us some breakfast but then I have to leave you, Elspeth. It’s this valentine murder. I have so many suspects, my head’s going round and round. You look glamorous on the telly. Not now with your hair gone all frizzy again. But I like it frizzy.”

“It can stay a mess while I’m here. I’m sick of hairdressers and beauticians. You know, Hamish, sometimes I wish I’d stuck to that job on the Highland Times. Never mind. Tell me about the case.”

“I’ll make breakfast first.”

It was like old times, thought Hamish, as he put a plate of bacon and eggs in front of Elspeth. Elspeth looked like old times, too, with her frizzy hair and clear grey Gypsy eyes.

He began to go over the murder cases.

When he had finished, Elspeth said, “The main thing is background.”

“Like what?”

“You need to dig and dig and find out if any of them have any knowledge in their past about how to make a letter bomb.”

“Strathbane went through the lot. Nothing.”

“But,” said Elspeth, “have you got anyone on your list who came up after Strathbane checked?”

“There’s a point. I’ve been checking on the men. I’ve only recently begun to check on the women.”

“Now, someone young might not have had the experience,” said Elspeth. “What about this Bill Freemont? Where’s he gone?”

“I’ll need to ask his wife. But he was checked.”

“Maybe he knew someone who could do it for him.”

“Good girl. I’ll get over there and see the wife. Oh, I got a message from young Percy Stane. He thinks he’s got something that might interest me. I’ll call on him on the way back.”

“Want me to come with you?”

Hamish hesitated and then said cautiously, “I suppose it’ll be all right. Blair’s given up and the press have gone. Mind, old rules! No reporting on anything unless I tell you to.”

“Don’t worry,” said Elspeth. “I need a break.”

The wildlife park had a lost, deserted air about it. Bad weather was moving in from the coast, carrying a metallic smell of snow to come on a rising wind.

Jocasta was not in the office and so they went up to the house, a small, squat, pebble-dashed bungalow.

Hamish rang the bell. Elspeth huddled behind him, the collar of her coat pulled up.

Jocasta answered the door. “What now?” she asked.

“Just a few questions.”

“I don’t want any newspeople around,” said Jocasta, recognising Elspeth.

“Elspeth, wait in the car,” said Hamish. When Elspeth had turned away, Hamish said, “Can I come in? It’s freezing out here.”

“Just for a minute,” said Jocasta. “I’m packing things up.”

She ushered him into a cold living room full of packing cases.

“Do you know where your husband is?” asked Hamish.

“Unfortunately, I do. He had to give me an address to send on his stuff. I’ll write it down for you. He’s in Edinburgh.”

Hamish waited until she had written down the address and handed it to him.

“Would you say that your husband was capable of making a letter bomb?”

“I would say that my husband was not capable of even mending a fuse,” said Jocasta harshly.

“What about yourself?”

“The jealous wife? You can forget that. I was right off Bill even before I knew about Annie. In fact, I’m grateful to that conniving bitch. Makes it easy for me to get a divorce. What is a village bobby doing cruising around the countryside with a member of the rich and famous?”

“Do you mean Elspeth?”

“Who else?”

“Miss Grant is an old friend,” said Hamish stiffly. “When you were packing up Bill’s things, did you find anything like letters from Annie? Anything like that?”

“Nothing but a lot of unpaid bills that he said he had paid. Look, I am so fed up with him that if I had found there was even a hint of him being a murderer, I would have told you.”

When Hamish hurried back to the Land Rover, snow was becoming to fall, small pellets driven before the wind.

“Any joy?” asked Elspeth.

“Nothing there,” said Hamish. “We’d best get to Braikie while we can. The forecast is bad.”

He drove north through the whitening landscape. “I forgot it could get like this,” said Elspeth. “Yesterday was so glorious that I didn’t remember that up here, you can get five climates in one day. It’s getting worse. Are you sure you can see?”

“I’m all right. But I hope the gritters get their trucks out soon.”

By the time they reached Braikie, the wind had dropped, but the snow continued to fall: large white Christmas card flakes, each one a miracle of cold lace.

At the town hall, they found that Percy was not in his office. Iona, at the switchboard, said he had stepped out half an hour ago.

They searched around Braikie in the pubs, in the café, and at the post office, but no one had seen Percy.

Their search was slowed by people recognising Elspeth and asking for autographs.

“Let’s have something to eat,” said Hamish, “and then find out where Percy lives.”

They ate mutton pies and peas in the café and then drove back to the town hall. This time, Hamish asked Jessie Cormack if she knew where Percy had gone. She shook her head and said she had not seen him that morning. But she was able to give them his address.

Percy lived with his parents in a small, grey stone house on the outskirts of Braikie. A very thin woman with dyed blonde hair answered the door. She looked in alarm at Hamish. “Is my husband all right?”

“It’s Percy I’ve come about,” said Hamish. “He isn’t in the office. Is he here?”

She shook her head. “Why are you asking about him?” she demanded. “Has he done something wrong?”

“Nothing like that. He left a message saying he had some information for me. Did he say anything to you?”

“He left this morning as usual.” Her eyes widened in fear. “These murders! Do you think something has happened to my boy?”

“No, no. I am sure he will turn up. I’ll phone you as soon as I find him.”

“No joy,” said Hamish when he joined Elspeth in the Land Rover. “Where the hell can he have gone? We’d best go back and sit in his office and see if he turns up. I’ll need to let Sonsie and Lugs out for a run first.”

“What’s the point of having a great flap on your door if you’re going to take your beasties everywhere with you?” demanded Elspeth.

“You never liked them,” complained Hamish.

“I like them fine,” said Elspeth. “But to have to look after two peculiar animals in a snowstorm when you’re supposed to be detecting is ridiculous.”

Hamish glared at her.

He let the dog and cat out of the back and stood huddled in his coat while they chased each other through the snow. At last he called them back and drove back to the town hall.

When they sat down in Percy’s office, a bad-tempered silence reigned between them. Elspeth broke it by saying, “Now we’re here, what about searching his desk?”

“Oh, all right,” said Hamish sulkily.

He began to turn over every piece of paper on top of the desk and then began to go through the drawers. “There’s something here,” he said, holding up a videotape.

“Maybe Percy’s back at the police station waiting for you,” said Elspeth.

“I’ve got a video recorder. I’ll just be leaving a receipt for this.”

“I didn’t think anyone had video recorders any more,” said Elspeth.

“Well, now you know.”