Death of a Valentine

Hamish barely thought about Josie. He was cynically sure that she would not last very long.

Now that she was away on holiday, he could put her right out of his mind. He was not very surprised, however, that on the day Josie was supposed to be back at work, her mother phoned to say her daughter had come down with a severe summer cold. She said a doctor’s certificate had been sent to Strathbane.

Hamish said that Josie was to take as long as she liked and sent his regards.

“What exactly did he say?” demanded Josie when her mother put down the phone.

“He sent you his very warmest wishes,” said Flora, exaggerating wildly.

Josie glowed. “I told you, Ma, absence does make the heart grow fonder.”

One of the real reasons Josie was delaying her return by claiming to have a cold was that, although she would not admit it to herself, she preferred dreams to reality. Just so long as she was away from Hamish, she could dream about him gathering her in his arms and whispering sweet nothings. He said all the things she wanted him to say.

But that message about “warmest wishes” buoyed her up so much that she decided to return in two days’ time. “You don’t think Strathbane will phone the doctor to check up?” she asked anxiously. Flora had stolen one of the certificates from the doctor’s pad when he was not looking.

“Och, no. You’ll be just fine.”

So Josie eventually set out with a head full of dreams-dreams which crashed down to her feet when Hamish opened the kitchen door and said, “Hullo, McSween. Are you fit for work?”

Work turned out to be a case of shoplifting over in Cnothan. Rain was drumming down and the midges, those Scottish mosquitoes, were out in clouds, undeterred by the downpour.

The job was very easy. The shopkeeper had a video security camera and had identified the thief. “I’ll go right now and arrest him,” said Josie eagerly.

“Now, I wouldn’t be doing that, lassie,” said the shopkeeper. “It’s just some poor auld drunk who took a bottle o’ cider. I won’t be pressing charges.”

“So why did you drag the police all the way here?” demanded Josie angrily.

“I didnae know it was him until I looked at the video fillum.”

The rain had stopped when Josie left the shop. She pulled out her phone to call Hamish and then decided against it. If she called at the police station to deliver her report, surely he would have to ask her in.

Sure enough, Hamish did invite her into the kitchen, but there was a woman there, sitting at the kitchen table. She was a cool blonde in expensive clothes. Hamish introduced her as Priscilla Halburton-Smythe. Josie knew from headquarters gossip that this was the woman Hamish had once been engaged to.

She delivered her report, saying angrily that she should have been allowed to make an arrest.

“Oh, we don’t arrest anyone up here if we can possibly avoid it,” said Hamish. “Take the rest of the day off.”

Josie stood there, hopefully. There was a pot of tea on the table and cakes.

“Run along,” said Hamish.

“You could have given her some tea,” said Priscilla.

“I’m keeping her right out,” said Hamish. “If she gets a foot in the door, before you know it she’ll be rearranging the furniture.”

“Where’s she staying?”

“Up at the manse.”

“How gloomy! She must be feeling very lonely.”

“Priscilla, she’s a grown-up policewoman! She’ll need to make friends here just like anyone else. How long are you staying?”

“Just a couple more days.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“All right. The Italian’s?”

“Yes, I’ll meet you there at eight.”

Unfortunately for Hamish, Josie decided to have dinner out that night. She stood hesitating in the door of the restaurant. To Hamish’s annoyance, Priscilla called her over and said, “Do join us.”

Hamish behaved badly during the meal, sitting in scowling silence as Priscilla politely asked Josie about her work and her home in Perth. She seemed completely unaware of Hamish’s bad mood. Josie translated Hamish’s discourtesy into a sort of Heathcliff brooding silence. Such were her fantasies about him that at one point, Josie thought perhaps he wanted to be alone with her and wished Priscilla would leave.

The awkward meal finally finished. Priscilla insisted on paying. Hamish thanked her curtly outside the restaurant and then strode off in the direction of the police station without a backward look.

Back in her room at the manse, common sense finally entered Josie’s brain and she had reluctantly to admit to herself that it was not Priscilla that Hamish had wanted to leave but herself. She dismally remembered Priscilla’s glowing beauty.

She decided to give the job just two more months and then request a transfer back to Strathbane.

The third of the Scottish Quarter Days, Lammas, the first of August, marks the start of autumn and the harvest season. Lammas perhaps had begun as a celebration of the Celtic goddess Lugh, and was absorbed into the church calendar as Loaf Mass Day. Lammas takes its name from the Old English half, meaning “loaf.” The first cut of the harvest was made on Lammas Day in the south, but in Braikie in Sutherland-a county hardly famous for its corn-it was an annual fair day to celebrate the third quarter.

For the first time, Josie was to work with Hamish, policing the fair. “There’s never any trouble,” he said as he drove Josie there in the police Land Rover. “The Gypsies have to be watched. Make sure the coconuts are not glued down and that the rifle sights at the shooting range aren’t bent. It’s a grand day for it.”

There was not a cloud in the sky. It was Josie’s first visit to Braikie, her other trips having, apart from Cnothan, only been to the remote areas. The town was gaily decorated with flags.

A peculiar sight met Josie’s eyes as they cruised along the main street. A man covered in flannel and stuck all over with a thick matting of spiky burrs was making his way along the street.

“That’s the Burryman,” said Hamish.

“What on earth is a Burryman?” asked Josie.

“Some folks say he is carrying off all the town’s shame and guilt, and others say it’s good luck for the fishermen, because all the burrs are supposed to represent fish caught in their nets.”

He drove to a field north of the town where the fair was being held. Hamish strolled around the various booths with Josie, stopping here and there to introduce her to towns-people.

There was all the fun of the fair, from a Ferris wheel and roundabouts to candy floss, hot dogs, and venison burgers.

The Gypsies, having spotted the arrival of Hamish, made sure he had nothing to complain about.

Josie walked along with Hamish in a happy dream as the sun shone down and the air was full of jaunty raucous music and the smells of frying food and sugary candy floss.

“We’re walking along here like an old married couple,” said Josie.

Hamish stopped abruptly. “You’re quite right,” he said. “It’s a waste of manpower. You patrol the left and I’ll patrol the right,” and with that he walked off.

Josie sadly watched him go. Then she saw a fortune-teller’s caravan. She shrugged. May as well get her fortune told.

She entered the caravan. There was a disappointingly ordinary-looking middle-aged woman sitting on a sofa. She had grey permed hair and was wearing a blouse and tweed skirt and sensible brogues.

“Sit down,” she said. “Five pounds, please.”

Feeling very let down, Josie handed over five pounds. Where were the tarot cards, the crystal ball, and the kabbalistic signs?

“Let me see your hands.”

Josie held out her small, plump hands.

“You’ll live long,” said the fortune-teller, “and have two children.”

“My husband? Who’s my husband?” asked Josie eagerly.

“I cannae see one. There’s darkness and danger up ahead. Let go of your dreams and you’ll be fine.”

“Anything else?”

“Isn’t that enough?”

“You’re a fraud,” said Josie angrily.

The Gypsy’s light grey eyes flashed with dislike and then suddenly seemed to look through her. “Bang and flames,” she said.

“What?”

“There’s danger up ahead. Look out for bombs.”

“Glad to know the Taliban are going to pay a visit to this dead-alive dump, this arsehole of the British Isles. It might liven things up,” said Josie furiously. She walked down the steps of the caravan and stood blinking in the sunlight.

What a waste of five pounds, thought Josie crossly. Then she saw that the crowds were beginning to move towards the far side of the field, where a decorated platform had been erected. “What’s going on?” she asked a woman.

“It’s the crowning o’ the Lammas queen.”

Josie followed the crowd. It was very hot. She could feel the sun burning down right through her cap. This far north, she thought, there was no pollution to block any of the sun’s rays.

In the distance she could hear the skirl of the pipes. Using her authority, Josie pushed her way to the front. The provost, the Scottish equivalent of the English mayor with his gold chain, was already on the platform surrounded by various town worthies. Hamish was there as well, standing to one side of the platform. She went to join him. A wide gate at the side of the field was being held open.

First came the pipe band, playing “ Scotland the Brave.” Behind came a decorated float with the queen seated on a throne with two handmaidens. The Lammas queen was a true highland beauty with black glossy hair and wide blue eyes fringed with heavy lashes.

The float was decorated with sheaves of corn. “Where did they get the corn?” asked Josie.

“Plastic,” said Hamish.

The queen was helped down from the float, and two men in kilts carried her throne up onto the platform. The pipes fell silent. “What’s her name?” asked Josie.

“That’s Annie Fleming,” said Hamish. “She works as a secretary ower in Strathbane. Her parents are right strict. I’m surprised they let her be queen.”

Annie was wearing a white gown covered with a red robe trimmed in rabbit fur.

She sat down on the throne. To Josie’s surprise, the crown, which was carried to the platform by a nervous little girl bearing it on a red cushion, looked like a real diamond tiara. The gems blazed in the sunlight, sending out prisms of colour.

“Is that real?” Josie asked.

“Aye,” said Hamish. “It once belonged to a Lady Etherington, English she was, and right fond of the Highlands. She lent it out once and her family have got it out o’ the bank every Lammas Day since then.”

“Do the family live in Braikie?”

“No. Lady Etherington’s grandson who owns the tiara lives in London but he’s got a shooting box up outside Crask and he aye comes up for the grouse shooting.”

Gareth Tarry, the provost, made a long boring speech. It was mostly about defending the council’s decision to stop building the seawall on the road to Braikie where, in previous years, the houses had been flooded at high tide.

It was only when an infuriated man from the audience shouted out, “You wouldnae be broke, ye numptie, if ye hadnae pit all your money in an Iceland bank.”

Anyone who had invested their savings in Iceland banks during the credit crunch was currently left in doubt as to whether they would get their money back.

The provost pretended not to hear but decided to get on with the crowning. He raised the glittering tiara and announced solemnly, “I now crown Miss Annie Fleming the Lammas queen.”

Everyone cheered. Annie graciously waved a white-gloved hand. She was helped down from the platform and back onto the float. Her throne was carried up onto it. The pipe band struck up again and the float, pulled by a tractor, moved off.

“She’s off round the town,” said Hamish. “You stay here and I’ll follow and keep my eye on that tiara.”

Hamish loped off. Josie miserably watched him go. She had looked forward so much to spending the day with him. But she suddenly had work to do.

People who owned houses along the shore road leading into Braikie, and who had been unable to sell their properties because of the frequent flooding from the rising sea, were gathering in front of the platform, heckling Mr. Tarry. He was a plump, self-satisfied-looking banker.

The provost saw the arrival of his official Daimler on the road outside the field and, climbing down from the platform, he tried to ignore the crowd and make his way to it. “You listen tae me,” shouted one man, and, trying to stop him, grabbed him by the gold chain.

Josie sprang into action. She twisted the man’s arm up his back and dragged him to the side. “You are under arrest,” she said, “for attempting to steal the provost’s gold chain. Name?”

“Look, there’s a mistake. I chust wanted to stop him and get him to answer my questions.”

“Name?”

“Hugh Shaw.”

Josie charged him and then proceeded to handcuff him. She heard cries of “Get Hamish,” and “Whaur’s Macbeth?”

Hamish came running back into the field. A boy had sprinted after him and called him back.

Josie said, “This man, Hugh Shaw, tried to steal the provost’s gold chain.”

Hamish looked down at her wearily. He knew Hugh owned a bungalow on the shore road. “Were you just trying to get his attention, Hugh?” he asked.

“Aye, that I was, Hamish. Thon fat cat has bankrupted the town, and until that wall is built there’s no hope o’ getting my place sold.”

“Take the handcuffs off, McSween,” said Hamish.

“But-”

“Just do it!”

Red in the face, Josie unlocked the handcuffs. Hamish raised his voice. “Now listen here, all of you. The only way you’re going to get that wall built is to do something about it yourselves. There are out-o’-work bricklayers and dry-stone wallers amongst ye. We’ll work out some fund-raising scheme and build the damn thing ourselves.”

There was an excited murmur as the news spread back through the crowd. The local minister, Mr. Cluskie, mounted the platform and went to the microphone. He announced that Hamish Macbeth had come up with a very good idea to save the seawall. He said a meeting would be held in the church hall on the following evening to discuss ideas for the fund-raising. This was greeted with loud cheers. Then Hugh called for three cheers for Hamish Macbeth.

Josie stood off to the side. She was a small woman but she began to feel smaller and smaller, diminished, melting in the heat.

“The tiara!” exclaimed Hamish and set off at a run.

He knew that the tiara, when the procession reached the town hall, would be placed in a safe and replaced with a gold cardboard crown for the queen to wear for the rest of the day.

He jumped into the Land Rover and headed for the town hall in the centre. To his relief, Annie was being helped down from the float. The tiara was put back on the cushion, and Councillor Jamie Baxter took it off into the hall. Hamish followed.

“I just have to see it’s in the safe all right,” he said to Jamie’s back.

“Och, man, each year you worry and each year it’s fine. Sir Andrew Etherington’ll be down on the morrow to collect it as usual.”

Nonetheless, Hamish insisted on supervising the installation of the tiara in the town safe.

Then he returned to the fair and joined a miserable-looking Josie. After Hamish had run off, the crowd had shunned her as if she had the plague. “Let’s go over to the refreshment tent,” said Hamish. “We need to talk.”

Josie trailed after him. “Sit down,” ordered Hamish. “I’ll get some tea.”

He returned with a tray bearing a fat teapot, milk, sugar, mugs, and two sugar buns.

“Now,” he said, “you have to use your wits. You have to understand the local people. Where those bungalows are on the shore road was once considered a posh bit o’ the town. Then the sea rose and rose. They got flooded time after time. Times are hard and now the people who own these houses wonder if they’ll ever see their money back. A good seawall would stop the flooding. The houses could be repaired and be sellable again. Tempers are running high. They feel the provost and councillors have bankrupted the town. It should have been obvious to you that Hugh was just trying to stop the provost.”

“But he grabbed his chain! If that’s not theft then at least it’s assault.”

“Look here, I go out of my way not to give normally respectable people a criminal record.”

“What about targets?”

“I never bother about government targets. Do you want me to get like thae English-arresting wee kids for carrying water pistols and giving some child a criminal record for carrying a dangerous weapon, and all to meet targets?”

“But if you don’t get enough targets, you don’t get promotions!”

“I didn’t even want this promotion. I want to be left alone. Now drink your tea, and if you are not happy with the situation get back to Strathbane.”

One fat tear rolled down Josie’s hot cheek, followed by another.

“Oh, dinnae greet,” said Hamish, alarmed. “You’ll need to toughen up if you want to keep on being a policewoman. It’s not your fault. They’d love you in Strathbane for any arrest. Things are different up here.” He handed her a soot-stained handkerchief which he had used that morning to lift the lid of the stove. He had to keep the stove burning if he wanted hot water from the back boiler. He had an immersion heater on the hot water tank but he found it cheaper to use peat in the stove because peat was free. He had a peat bank up at the general grazing area.

Josie sniffed and wiped her face with a clean part of the handkerchief.

“Drink your tea and we’ll go out. Look as if you’re enjoying the fun of the fair and folks will forget all about it. That Annie Fleming must be about the most beautiful girl in the Highlands.”

“Oh, really?” said Josie. “Didn’t look anything special to me.”

Josie thought hopefully that by enjoying the fun of the fair, Hamish meant they should go on some of the rides together, but he ordered her to police the left-hand side of the fair while he took the right.

It was a long hot day. Josie had set her hair early in the morning but it was crushed under her hat, and trickles of sweat were running down her face. By evening, when Hamish briefly joined her, she asked plaintively when they could pack up.

“Not until the fair closes down,” said Hamish. “There’s sometimes a rough element in the evening.” And he strolled off, leaving Josie glaring after him.

By the time the fair began to close down at eleven in the evening, Josie was tired and all her romantic ideas about Hamish Macbeth had been sweated out of her system. He was an inconsiderate bully. He would never amount to anything. He was weird in the way that he shied away from making arrests.

She sat beside him in mutinous silence on the road back to Lochdubh, planning a trip to Strathbane on the Monday morning, turning over in her mind the best way to get a transfer back again.

“You may as well take the day off tomorrow” were Hamish’s last words that evening to her.

Hamish was outside the police station on the following Sunday morning, sawing wood, when he heard the shrill sound of the telephone ringing in the police office. He ran in and picked up the receiver. Jimmy Anderson was on the line. “You’d better get over to Braikie, Hamish. We’ll join you as soon as we can.”

“What’s up?”

“Sir Andrew Etherington collected thon tiara from the town hall first thing this morning. He was on the way back to his home when there was a blast up ahead and a tree fell across the road. Four fellows he didn’t know appeared and said they’d move the tree if he’d sit tight. Now Sir Andrew gets out of the car to go and help. He gets back in his car and waves goodbye to those helpful men. He’s nearly at his home when he realises that the box wi’ the tiara is no longer on the seat beside him.”

Hamish scrambled into his uniform and then phoned Josie and said he’d be picking her up in a few moments. Josie complained that she was just out of the bath.

“Then take your car and follow me over,” said Hamish. “The tiara’s been stolen. Get on the road towards Crask. Take the north road out of Braikie and you’ll see my Land Rover. Some men got a tree to fall over the road, blocking Sir Andrew’s way, and when he got out to help them someone nicked the tiara.”

Hamish was cursing as he took the Braikie Road. Every year the safety of that tiara was his responsibility.

As he drove through Braikie and out on the north road, he slowed down until he saw a rowan tree lying by the side of the road. He stopped and got out.

He remembered that tree, for trees were scarce in Sutherland apart from the forestry plantations, and such as survived were miserable stunted little things bent over by the Sutherland gales. The rowan tree, however, had been a sturdy old one sheltered from the winds in the lee of a hill that overshadowed the road. The bottom of the trunk had been shattered by a blast. He went across to where the tree had once grown and studied the blackened ground. He guessed a charge of dynamite had been put at the base of the tree.

He straightened up as Josie’s car came speeding along the road. He flagged her down and said, “You wait here for the forensic boys. I’ll go on to the shooting box.”

The shooting box was a handsome Georgian building, square-built with a double staircase leading up to the front door.

Hamish knew that the front door was never used so he went round to one at the side of the building and knocked. A grisled old man, Tom Calley, who worked as a butler during the shooting season, answered the door. “It’s yourself, Hamish. A bad business.”

“I’d like to speak to Sir Andrew.”

“I’ll take you to him.”

“Has he got a shooting party here?”

“Not yet. The guests are due to arrive next week for the grouse. There’s just Sir Andrew and his son, Harry.”

“No other help but yourself?”

“A couple of lassies frae Braikie, Jeannie Macdonald and her sister Rosie.”

Hamish followed him up stone stairs to a square hall, where the mournful heads of shot animals looked down at him with glassy eyes.

Tom led the way across the hall and threw open the door to a comfortable drawing room, full of shabby furniture and lined with books.

Sir Andrew put down the newspaper he had been reading. He was a tall, thin man in his late fifties with a proud nose, thin mouth, and sparse brown hair. His son, Harry, was slumped in a chair opposite his father. Harry, in contrast, was short and plump, owlish looking with thick glasses.

“This is infuriating,” said Sir Andrew.

“Could you just describe to me exactly what happened?”

Sir Andrew went through his story again. When he had finished, Hamish said, “You don’t have much of a description of the men.”

“They were wearing those baseball caps with the peak like a duck’s bill pulled down over their faces. They all wore sort of working clothes, grey shirts and jeans.”

Hamish’s eyebrows rose. “All wearing the same type of clothes?”

“Well, yes.”

“What sort of accent?”

“ Highland, I suppose, although one sounded a bit Irish.”

“How Irish?”

“At one point he said, ‘Faith and begorrah, ’tis a black thing to happen on a fine day.’ ”

“You’re sure?”

“Would I make that up?”

Hamish glanced out of the corner of his eye at Harry. There was a certain rigid stillness about him.

“If you don’t mind, sir,” said Hamish, “I’d like to search the house.”

“You need a search warrant!” shouted Harry.

“Go ahead,” said Sir Andrew. “Pipe down, Harry.”

Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived followed by the scenes of crimes operatives. Then Jimmy Anderson along with a van full of police officers arrived at the bombed tree.

“Where’s Macbeth?” demanded Blair.

“Gone to speak to Sir Andrew,” said Josie.

“He should ha’ waited for me.”

“I’ve remembered something, sir. It’s important.”

“Spit it out!”

“I went to a fortune-teller at the fair yesterday…”

“God gie me patience.”

“No, wait. She said something about a bang and flames.”

“Oh, she did, did she? I might ha’ known. Sodding Gypsies. I might ha’ known they’d be behind this.” Blair called everyone around him. “Get back to that fair. The caravans should still be there. Search every single one. Get it!”

Hamish met Tom in the hall. “Which is Harry’s room?” he whispered.

“Follow me.”

Up more old stone steps worn smooth with age. “This is it,” said Tom, opening a door.

The room was dominated by an old four-poster bed. On either side of the bed were side tables covered in paperbacks. There was an enormous wardrobe. Hamish opened it. It was of the old kind with room for hats, drawers for ties and shirts on one side, and space for hanging clothes on the other.

“I’ll leave you to it,” said Tom.

“You’d better stay,” said Hamish. “I might need you as a witness.”

As he searched the wardrobe, he turned over in his mind what he’d heard about Harry. He had a reputation of being a bit of a wastrel. His mother was dead and Sir Andrew was rumoured to be strict, always finding some job or other for his son and raging when Harry usually only survived a few weeks in each.

The wardrobe yielded nothing sinister. He turned and surveyed the room.

Then he dragged a hard-backed chair over to the wardrobe and stood on top of it, his long fingers searching behind the wooden pediment on top of the wardrobe.

He slowly dragged forward a black leather box.

Chapter Three

O Diamond! Diamond! Thou little knowest the mischief done!

– Sir Isaac Newton

Blair, originally from Glasgow, detested Gypsies even more than he detested highlanders. It was this, fuelled by his glee when Josie whispered to him that she wanted a transfer back to Strathbane and that Hamish Macbeth was useless, that caused him to make one of the biggest mistakes of his career.

He did not have search warrants but he ordered his men to search every caravan. The Gypsies howled their protests and then fell ominously silent. The reason for their silence was soon proved as no fewer than three lawyers, the sum total of the lawyers in Braikie, arrived, demanding to see the search warrants.

And as they were making their demands, Superintendent Daviot arrived on the scene.

Red-faced, Blair was just spluttering that it was a matter of urgency and that PC McSween had given them proof that the Gypsies were involved when Jimmy Anderson came hurrying up, clutching a mobile phone. “Hamish has just arrested Harry Etherington,” he said. “He found the tiara hidden in Harry’s room.”

Daviot stared at Blair and then at Josie. “You, Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and you, Josie McSween, are suspended from duty pending enquiries. Where is Macbeth now, Anderson?”

“Taking Harry to Strathbane.”

“I’ll go there directly. Blair, make your best apologies and get your men to put everything back neat and tidy just the way they found it. Who is the head man here?”

“Me,” said a small wrinkled man. “Tony McVey.”

“Mr. McVey, you have our deepest apologies.”

“Aye,” said McVey. “And your damp apologies are not going to stop the lawsuit.” He turned on his heel and walked away.

Harry Etherington had pleaded with his father not to press charges. He said it was all a bit of a joke and he’d got some friends up from London to help him. Sir Andrew simply looked at Hamish coldly and said, “Do your duty, Officer.”

Hamish demanded the names and addresses of Harry’s friends and learned they were staying at a hotel over in Dornoch. He phoned the Dornoch police and told them to bring the men in. Then he took Harry off to Strathbane.

He put Harry in a cell at police headquarters, went into the detectives’ room, sat down at Jimmy’s computer, and began to type out his report.

He was still typing when Jimmy arrived. “Where’s His Nibs?” asked Jimmy.

“In the cells. Where were you?”

Jimmy explained what had happened and said that Blair and McSween had been suspended from duty pending a full investigation.

Blair marched past them into his office and slammed the door. Then Daviot appeared. “Come with me, Anderson,” he ordered, “and we will interview Hetherington. First of all, Macbeth, what happened?”

Patiently, Hamish explained about having Sir Andrew’s permission to search the house and how he had suspected Harry because of Harry’s bad reputation and because he had been sure he was lying. Also, he said, Sir Andrew’s description of the men-particularly the one with what had sounded a fake Irish accent-had alerted his suspicions. He said that the butler had been witness to him finding the tiara.

“Good work,” said Daviot. “Do you want to sit in on the interview?”

“Och, no,” said Hamish, not wanting to show any sign of ambition or desire to rise in the ranks. “I’ll be off when I’ve finished this.”

Daviot’s temper was not helped because, before he could start the interview, Sir Andrew arrived and said he would not be pressing charges; he accepted that it had all been a joke. Harry’s four friends were to be charged with possession of dynamite, malicious damage to a tree, and obstructing the road, thereby endangering drivers, and bound over to appear at the sheriff’s court. Harry was charged not with the theft of the tiara but with conspiring to cause malicious damage and told he would be expected to appear in court as well.

Pondering the problem of Blair, Daviot wondered what to do. Blair was always attentive to him, and he was a Freemason and a member of the same lodge as Daviot. The detective always remembered Mrs. Daviot’s birthday and sent generous Christmas presents as well. At last he decided it was Hamish’s fault. Hamish should have phoned Blair immediately and voiced his suspicions of Harry before he had even begun the search.

Blair was lumbering out of headquarters when he saw Josie ahead of him, carrying a box of items she had cleared out of her desk along with a small potted plant. “Hey, you!” he roared. Josie turned round. Her face was streaked with tears.

“This is all your fault,” said Blair, “and if you ever get your job back, you can rot up in Lochdubh until the end o’ time.”

Josie forced herself to speak calmly. “I told you what that Gypsy fortune-teller said, sir. I don’t believe in the second sight. And where did Harry’s friends get the dynamite from? One of the policemen told me some of the Gypsies had been working over at the quarry near Alness as few months ago.”

Blair stared at her, his mind working furiously. Then he said grimly, “Get in the car wi’ me, lassie. We’re going to Alness.”

When Blair discovered after two days of detective work that two of the Gypsies who had been working at the quarry had sold the dynamite to Harry’s friends, Daviot breathed a sigh of relief. He would not need to get rid of Blair after all. Nonetheless, Blair had ordered an illegal search and the police enquiry dragged on for weeks. Josie was questioned and questioned until she felt she would scream.

When it was all over, and only a small amount of compensation had been paid to the Gypsies who’d had their caravans raided without a search warrant, she found that Blair had refused to give her any credit whatsoever. She was to be sent back to Lochdubh and consider herself lucky that she still had a job.

Had Blair been at all nice to her, had he given her any credit, had he asked for her to be returned to Strathbane, her old obsession with Hamish would have vanished like highland mist on a summer’s day.

But all she could now think of was Hamish’s brilliance in having found Harry Etherington out.

Hamish looked down at her with a flash of dismay in his hazel eyes. He wanted the village and his work back to himself. He told Josie to go back to checking on the outlying crofts and then got down to repairing loose slates on the police station roof. He expected a quiet winter and shrewdly guessed that Josie would soon grow bored with the long miles she had to put in, and ask for a transfer.

The winter arrived without much happening and Josie continued to doggedly perform all the dull tasks allotted to her. There seemed to be no chink in Hamish’s armour. The Christmas holidays when she could go back to her mother in Perth came as a relief.

She poured out her woes to her mother who said comfortably, “There’s bound to be a big case soon and then you’ll be working together.”

“Nothing ever happens up there,” said Josie bitterly, “and nothing ever will. All Harry and his friends got was a slap on the wrist and community service. Those Gypsies got three months each. Harry and his friends had a top-flight lawyer.”

Her mother put down the romance she had been reading. “There are aye a lot of blizzards up there in January with folks cut off. You’d be thrown together.” Was that not what had happened to heroine Heather in the book she had been reading? And hadn’t Heather ended up on a sheepskin rug in front of a log fire in the arms of the laird?

That was all Josie needed to fuel her imagination. When a really massive blizzard roared in, she would struggle along to the police station. They would be snowbound together, talking companionably by the stove. And then…and then…

But the winter proved to be unusually mild. Patel’s, the local shop, began to show a display of Valentine cards towards the end of January. Josie longed to buy one, but was afraid Hamish would simply ask Patel who had sent it. Finally, she felt completely defeated. She would go to Strathbane and beg for a transfer, but after Valentine’s Day. Maybe Hamish was cool to her because he was hiding a secret passion. Maybe a card would arrive for her.

Before going on her rounds on Valentine’s Day, she hung around the manse until the post arrived. There was nothing for her. Determined now to get back to Strathbane, Josie bleakly set off on her rounds.

Annie Fleming, the Lammas beauty queen, did not go to work on Valentine’s Day. She usually went to work as a secretary at a wildlife park outside Strathbane. She considered it a mangy park with only a few animals. It was the brainchild of an earnest English woman and her Scottish husband. It was the first job that had come her way and, as she was desperate to avoid working for her father who owned a bottle-producing factory, and to gain at least a little independence, she had taken it. On previous Valentine’s Days, her father had insisted on examining her cards, demanding to know who had sent them. Annie had a pretty good idea who had mailed each card but, fortunately, the tradition of not signing cards was a blessing and so she had told her father she hadn’t a clue.

But there was one she was longing for. A disco club in Strathbane had started lunchtime sessions. It was there that Annie had met Jake Cullen, he of the black leather outfit and supply of Ecstasy pills. In all her restricted life, she had never met someone more exciting. The drinks he plied her with and the drugs he gave her made her feel strong and confident.

She parked in a back lane in Braikie that afforded a view down to the main road. She waited until she saw her father with her mother in the passenger seat drive past and then drove home again and waited eagerly for the post. She knew her bosses were down in Edinburgh and that she was supposed to open up the wildlife park, but she persuaded herself that she would not be very late.

The doorbell rang. Annie swore under her breath. She had not wanted the postman to know she was at home. But there could be a really big valentine for her that could not fit into the letter box. She opened the door.

“Grand morning, Annie,” said the postman, Bill Comrie. “Aren’t you at work?”

“I think I’m coming down with something,” said Annie.

“I’ve a rare bit o’ post for you, and a package. You’re popular wi’ the fellows.”

“Thanks.” Annie snatched the post from him and shut the door firmly in his face.

The package was addressed to her. It looked exciting somehow. She decided to leave it until last. She had six valentines. Five were the usual soppy kind, but the sixth held a peculiar typewritten rhyme.

Roses are red, violets are blue

You’ll get in the face,

Just what’s coming to you.

Nutcase, thought Annie, putting it down with the others beside that mysterious package. Before she opened it, she went to the sideboard in the living room and took out a bottle of gin. She poured a stiff measure into a glass, carried the gin bottle into the kitchen, topped it up with water, and returned it to the sideboard. Back in the kitchen, she unpicked a little of the hem at the bottom of her jacket and picked out an Ecstasy pill. She swallowed the pill down with a gulp of gin.

Now for that parcel.

There was a tab at the side to rip to get the parcel open. She tore it across. A terrific explosion tore apart the kitchen. Ball bearings and nails, the latter viciously sharpened, tore into her face and body as flames engulfed her. Perhaps it was a mercy that one of the nails pierced her brain, killing her outright, before the flames really took hold.

Mrs. McGirty, an elderly lady who lived in the next cottage, heard the loud explosion just as she was about to enter her own home. She seized a fire extinguisher she kept in her car and ran to the Flemings’ house and round to the back where she knew the kitchen was. She thought it was a gas explosion. The kitchen door was lying on its hinges. Screaming with fear, she plied the fire extinguisher over the horrible mess that had once been the beauty of the Highlands and over the flaming kitchen table. Then, white as paper, on shaking legs, she went to her own home and phoned Hamish Macbeth.

Hamish phoned Josie before setting out for Braikie. He did not expect her to arrive until later because she was supposed to be up in the northwest of the county. But Josie had become weary of home visits and so she had been parked quite near Lochdubh, up on a hilltop, reading a romance, when she received the call.

Hamish stood in the doorway of the kitchen and grimly surveyed the body. He heard a car driving outside and went out. Josie had arrived. “A murder!” she cried excitedly. “Where’s the body?”

“In the kitchen.”

“Can I have a look?”

“Go to the kitchen doorway but don’t go in and don’t touch anything. Suit up before you go in.” Hamish was wearing blue plastic coveralls with blue plastic covering his boots.

Josie went back to her car and eagerly climbed into a similar outfit. Hamish stared after her, his eyes hard, as Josie went into the house. She was back out a minute later and vomited into a flower bed.

“Go and sit in your car,” ordered Hamish, “and pull yourself together. I’m going to see Mrs. McGirty next door. It’s thanks to her the place didn’t burn down.”

Mrs. McGirty answered the door. Her old eyes had the blind look of shock.

“I’ll phone the doctor for you,” said Hamish. “Go in and sit down and I’ll make you a cup of tea.”

He found his way to the kitchen, made a cup of milky tea with a lot of sugar, and took it to her. “Now you be drinking that,” he said gently. “What’s the name and number of your doctor?” When she told him, Hamish phoned her doctor and asked him to come along immediately. Then he said, “Tell me what happened.”

In a quavering voice, Mrs. McGirty told how she had heard a bang and then seen smoke pouring out from next door. The kitchen was at the back of the house but the smoke was curling up over the roof. She had run in and plied the fire extinguisher.

“You are a verra brave woman,” said Hamish. “If it hadn’t been for you, possibly a lot of useful forensic evidence would have been lost.”

There was a ring at the doorbell. Hamish answered it. He recognised another neighbour, Cora Baxter, wife of Councillor Jamie Baxter.

“Is she all right?” asked Cora. “Ruby? Mrs. McGirty?”

“She’s in there. Could you sit with her until the doctor arrives?”

“I’ll do that. Poor, poor Annie.”

“How did you learn it was her?”

“Thon wee policewoman outside.”

Josie should not be gossiping, thought Hamish.

When he went outside, the area had been cordoned off. The army bomb squad were just going into the house. The scenes of crimes operatives were suiting up. Jimmy Anderson approached Hamish. “They’re saying it was Annie.”

“From what was left o’ the body, it looked like her,” said Hamish.

“Who on earth could ha’ done this?” said Jimmy. “I was talking to some folk at the edge of the crowd and by all accounts, they’re a churchgoing, God-fearing family and Annie is prim and proper and a right innocent. And why wasn’t she at work? The parents have been phoned. The mother works with the father. They said at first it couldn’t be their daughter because she left this morning for work, but we got on to the postie on his mobile and he said he delivered the post to Annie. Said there were valentines and a package, all addressed to Annie.”

“That’s why she waited for the post,” said Hamish. “She wanted to see her cards. Now, if she was that keen, there must have been a card she was really hoping for. Look, Jimmy, she worked over at that wildlife centre. I’ll get over there and find out what I can. There’s nothing I can do here until all the bomb and forensic evidence is collected. Where’s Blair?”

“Got the flu. What about your sidekick?”

“I’d better take her with me.”

If Josie had been a friend, thought Hamish, he could have sent her back to the police station to look after his dog and cat. Angela had rebelled at taking care of them any more. Certainly there was a large cat flap in the kitchen door, large enough to allow both of them to come and go, but left to their own devises they were apt to go along to the kitchen door of the Italian restaurant and beg. Then they got fat and he had to put both on a diet and then they both sulked.

“Are you all right now?” he asked Josie as he drove her out onto the Strathbane Road in the police Land Rover. He had told her to leave her car behind.

“It was a horrible sight,” said Josie with a shudder.

“What did you expect? She was blown to bits.”

“I’ve never seen a dead body before,” said Josie.

“You get used to it,” said Hamish callously. “Once they’re dead, it’s just clay.”

“What do you expect to find at this wildlife park?” asked Josie.

“I want to dig into the character of Annie Fleming. Her parents were very strict. Maybe she’d begun to rebel. Maybe she’d got into bad company.”

Hamish turned up the muddy road leading to the park. A sign hung crookedly at the entrance. Hamish slowed to a stop and read the board. It said WILDLIFE PARK, PROPS, JOCASTA AND BILL FREEMONT.

They drove in past empty cages towards a hut with a sign saying OFFICE.

A woman came out to meet them. She was in her mid-thirties with two wings of fair hair hanging on either side of a thin face. She was wearing a shabby navy sweater over a grey shirt and jeans tucked into Wellington boots.

“Mrs. Freemont?” asked Hamish.

“I’ll say one thing for you. You’re quick,” said Mrs. Jocasta Freemont. “I just phoned ten minutes ago.” Her voice was upper-class.

Hamish turned and surveyed the cages. “Someone let them all out?”

“Exactly. Damn animal libbers.”

“You say you’ve just discovered the vandalism,” said Hamish. “Didn’t you notice first thing this morning?”

“I’ve just got back from Edinburgh with Bill. That secretary of ours was supposed to open up.”

“I’m afraid I didn’t get your call,” said Hamish. “Annie Fleming has been murdered.”

“What! You’d better come into the office.” She went ahead of them, shouting, “Bill! Something awful has happened.”

A small man with a shock of grey hair was sitting at a desk. He rose when they all walked in. He was quite small in stature and wearing a grey flannel suit, silk shirt, and blue silk tie. Hamish wondered cynically whether the trip to Edinburgh had been to see some bank manager. He wondered why Jocasta was wearing working clothes.

“What’s up?” he asked. “I mean, what’s mair awful than some loons robbing us?”

“Annie’s been murdered,” said Jocasta.

“She can’t be!” said Bill. “Who’d want to murder Annie? How did it happen?”

“A letter bomb,” said Hamish. “I’ve a few questions to ask you but we’ll concentrate on your missing beasts first. What did you have?”

“We hadn’t much because we were really just starting up. Let me see, a pair of minks, a snowy owl, two parrots, a lion-”

“A lion!” exclaimed Hamish. “What on earth were you doing with a lion?”

“I got it from a circus. It was old. I think it’ll come back round for food.”

“What else?”

Bill gave a dismal little catalogue. Then he said, “I’m waiting for the SSPCA, and the zoo in Strathbane is sending some people up wi’ tranquilliser guns.”

“Look,” said Hamish, “we’ll need to put out a warning that a lion’s on the loose.”

He went outside and phoned Daviot. “I’ll mobilise some men,” said Daviot, “and tell the newspapers and television.”

“Thank you, sir. I’d best get back to the Annie Fleming investigation.”

Hamish hesitated before going back into the hut. It was an odd marriage, surely. Jocasta looked as if she came from a moneyed background whereas Bill was definitely lower down the scale and, from his accent, came from the south of Scotland. He wondered whether it was Jocasta’s money that had set up this dismal excuse for a wildlife park. It was not on his beat-being covered by Strathbane-but despite the missing wildlife, he was sure the air of failure that hung over the place had been there from the start.

The sky above had turned a bleached white colour heralding rain to come.

There came a screech of tyres. First on the scene were officers from the Scottish Society for the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals. They’ll never get their park back, thought Hamish. Even if all the beasts were found, those officers would take one look at the mangy cramped cages and shut the place down.

Then came Detective Sergeant Andy MacNab with two policemen. “I’ll take over, Hamish,” he said.

“I’d like to ask them about Annie Fleming.”

“It’ll need to wait, Hamish. Daviot’s got his knickers in a twist about thon lion.”

Hamish called Josie out of the office. “We can’t do anything more here today. We’d best be getting back to Braikie.”

He drove up the drive and turned off on the road leading back towards Braikie.

Josie felt hungry. “Could we stop somewhere for lunch?” she asked.

“We’ll get something in Braikie. Heffens above!”

He screeched to a halt and Josie let out a scream of terror. A lion was standing in the middle of the road.

“I’ll chust see if I can be talking to it,” said Hamish.

“Are you mad!”

Hamish got out and went to the back of the Land Rover, where he had a haunch of venison given to him by a keeper the evening before. It was wrapped in sacking. He took it out and waved it at the lion. The great beast approached cautiously. Hamish tossed the haunch into the back of the Land Rover. The lion jumped in and Hamish slammed the back doors.

He climbed back in the front. “We’ll chust be taking the lion to that zoo in Strathbane. I am not having the beastie returned to that dreadful park.”

Josie wrenched open the passenger door and jumped out on the road. “It’ll kill us.”

“It’s locked off in the back.”

“I’m not getting in there.”

“Suit yourself,” said Hamish. He did a U-turn and sped off in the direction of Strathbane.

The zoo in Strathbane, he knew, was well run, unlike most of the rest of that dismal town. He wondered why he hadn’t been met on the road, feeling sure that Josie would have phoned to say he had a dangerous animal in the back of the Land Rover. He did not know that Josie had found the batteries in her phone had died. He stopped briefly on the road to phone Daviot and say the lion had been caught.

At the zoo, the head keeper cautiously opened the rear doors of the Land Rover. The lion was asleep.

“I don’t think the poor lion needs a tranquilliser gun,” said Hamish. “I should guess it’s awfy old. It came from some circus so it’ll be used to folks.”

Daviot had phoned the local papers, and several reporters and photographers were gathered.

“No flash pictures,” ordered Hamish. “It’s waking up. Let me see if I can get it out. Come on, boy. It’s all right.”

The lion blinked at him and slowly rose to its feet. The remains of the haunch of venison were lying beside it. “Now then,” cooed Hamish. “That’s the ticket. Slowly now. Just one wee jump. There we are.”

The lion stood beside him. The keeper said, “Maybe if you follow me to the cage, it’ll follow you.”

“It had better be a good big cage,” said Hamish.

“Och, it leads onto a bit of a field and a big auld tree,” said the keeper.

Hamish followed him and the lion followed Hamish. Once at the cage, Hamish walked into it with the lion behind him. The keeper opened a sack he had been carrying and threw a lump of meat into the cage.

The lion fell on it and Hamish slowly exited the cage. “Turn those lights off,” snarled Hamish at a television crew, “and give the lion a bit o’ peace.”

Hamish drove back to the wildlife park. The rain had begun to fall. Josie was standing outside the office, looking wet and miserable.

“They wouldn’t let me in the office,” complained Josie. “They said there wasn’t room and I wasn’t on the case.”

“Get in,” said Hamish. Josie meekly climbed in. “Now, what were you about, McSween,” said Hamish. “Thon lion was secure in the back. It’s where we put a prisoner, see? It couldnae have got at us.”

“I was scared,” mumbled Josie.

Hamish had been frightened as well but Josie did not know him well enough to understand that Hamish’s accent became more highland and sibilant when he was afraid. But overcoming Hamish’s fear was a desire to keep this noble old lion alive. He was sure if Strathbane police had arrived on the scene, then they would have shot it.

“We’ll say no more about it,” said Hamish. “I’ll switch on the heater. Do you want to go home and change?”

“I’ve only got the one uniform,” said Josie. “I’ll soon dry out. What are we going to do in Braikie?”

“I’m going to try to find out the names of some of Annie’s friends. I want to know whether she had met anyone who might wish her harm. But maybe we’ll begin at the post office and see if Georgie Braith, the new postmistress, can remember names of men or boys who bought valentines.”

“Isn’t it ‘postperson’?” asked Josie.

“We aren’t PC up here.”

Hamish parked in front of the post office. “Could we have something to eat first?” pleaded Josie.

“Time’s getting on. Stick it out for a bit.” He looked down at Josie’s dismal face. “Tell you what. You get something to eat. There’s the fish-and-chip shop over there. I’ll let you know if I find out anything. Meet me back at the Land Rover.”

Why did Josie stay on? wondered Hamish. He suspected she had given up going on calls. Why didn’t she just go back to Strathbane?

Georgie Braith was a tall, rangy woman with iron-grey hair and a beak of a nose. To Hamish’s questions, she replied, “The parcel wasn’t posted from here. I can tell you that. And how can I remember who bought valentines? It’s age. I can remember twenty years ago but don’t ask me about yesterday.”

“Did you know Annie Fleming?”

“Of course. You know what it’s like in Braikie. Everyone knows everyone else.”

“What did you think of her?”

“A very bonnie lass.”

“Do you happen to know who her friends were?”

“I remember now. She came in to look at valentines with Jessie Cormack.”

“Where will I find Jessie Cormack?”

“She works as a secretary up at the town hall-the building department.”

Hamish was just making his way out to the car when his attention was caught by a newspaper poster outside the newsagents. TV PRESENTER TO WED seemed to scream at him.

He went in to the newsagents and bought a copy of the Daily Bugle. He flipped open the pages and there it was: a photo of a smiling Elspeth Grant on the arm of a handsome man stared out at him. He read, “Our very own Elspeth Grant is to wed Paul Darby, heartthrob of the hospital soap Doctors in Peril.” His eyes skittered over the black print. Paul Darby was English, and the couple had met when Elspeth was on holiday in the Maldives.

Hamish stood there, feeling forlorn. He remembered all the times he had been on the point of proposing to Elspeth but something had always seemed to get in the way. A voice in his head sneered, “If you had been that keen, you’d have proposed.” But he felt depressed.

He put the newspaper in the rubbish bin outside and joined Josie in the Land Rover. “We’re off to the town hall,” said Hamish. “One of the secretaries there was a friend o’ Annie.”

“Anything the matter?” asked Josie, glancing sideways at his grim face.

“Nothing at all,” snapped Hamish.

Jessie Cormack was a tall, thin girl with brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. Her eyes were light grey in a pale face. Her mouth, however, was wide and sensual although free of lipstick.

The town hall was one of those red sandstone mock castles so beloved by the Victorians. Jessie’s little room was small and dark, separated from that of her boss by a plywood partition. It was very quiet. The thick walls blocked out all sounds from outside. The rain had turned to snow, and feathery flakes floated down outside the window.

“Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to wish Annie harm?” asked Hamish.

“No. Annie was popular with everyone.”

Hamish was sitting opposite her desk. Josie had taken a chair against the wall next to a radiator. Hamish leaned back in his chair and said quietly, “The time for lying is past, Jessie.”

Jessie studied her hands in her lap. Then she said, “Her parents will be mad.”

“It doesn’t matter what her parents think, and they can’t get mad wi’ a dead body,” said Hamish brutally. “Out with it!”

“Well, it was like how she said the Freemonts who run the wildlife park didn’t have a clue how to go on. She said they were losing money hand over fist. It was all Bill Freemont’s fault. It was his dream and his wife’s money. Anyway, they tried to get Annie to do some work round the cages, cleaning and that, but Annie said she was employed as a secretary and that was that.

“One day recently she heard Mrs. Freemont shouting that they didn’t need a secretary because there wasn’t enough work but Bill said they needed someone to answer the phones and take money from people when they weren’t there.

“When they went off somewhere, Annie would lock up at lunchtime and go to that disco, Stardust, in Strathbane. They have a lunchtime session. She said she met a dreamboat there.”

“Name?”

“Jake something or other. She was going to take me there one Saturday and introduce me.”

“Anyone else?”

“She said Bill Freemont had come on to her but she threatened to tell his wife and he backed off. Och, it was her parents’ fault. They were that strict. You know, church and Bible classes on the Sunday.”

“Which church?”

“The Free Presbyterian Church in Braikie.”

“So Annie liked to rebel?”

“She was a bit of a flirt.”

“Oh, she was, was she?” said Hamish. “You seem to be taking her murder calmly.”

“She was asking for it,” said Jessie in a burst of sudden anger. “She flirted with my boyfriend and then laughed in his face when he tried to ask her out. He didn’t have any time for me. He followed her around like a dog.”

“Name?”

“Percy Stane.”

“And where does he work?”

“Waste disposal. Across the hall.”

“Right.” Hamish got to his feet. “Did you get all that, McSween?”

Josie blushed. She had been daydreaming.

Hamish sighed and took out his notebook. “Right, Jessie, I’ll need you to go over it again.”

Percy Stane-what misguided parent called a child Percy these days? wondered Hamish-turned out to be a spotty youth of nineteen years. He had thick glasses through which pale blue eyes stared at them like a rabbit caught in the headlights.

“We just want to ask you a few questions about Annie Fleming,” said Hamish. “Did you send her a valentine?”

Percy’s eyes darted this way and that. “We have good forensic evidence,” said Hamish severely, hoping Percy would think his card had been found.

“I-I d-did s-send one,” he stammered.

“Now, that’s all right,” said Hamish soothingly. “You didn’t send her a parcel?”

Hamish’s mobile phone rang. “Excuse me,” he said. He answered it. It was Jimmy. “Thought you’d like to hear the latest. At the autopsy, they found tablets of Ecstasy sewn into the hem of her jacket. It fortunately hadnae been burnt, thanks to that McGirty woman.”

“I’ve just learned she had been frequenting a disco called Stardust in her lunch break,” said Hamish.

“Good man. I’ve been dying for an excuse to raid that place for ages.”

Jimmy rang off.

Hamish went and sat down facing Percy again. “Did you say anything in your valentine?”

Percy blushed deep red. “Do I have to tell you?”

“Yes.”

“I didn’t put a poem. I just wrote, ‘Come back to me. Love, Percy.’ ”

“So she had been your date?”

“Not exactly.” Percy wriggled in his hard chair. “Annie was always flirting and I thought she fancied me. I couldn’t look at my girlfriend after Annie came on to me. I thought about her night and day.”

“You mean Jessie Cormack?”

“Yes.”

“Didn’t it strike you as rather mean that Annie would flirt with you and then turn cold when she’d got you away from her friend?”

“I was…dazzled.”

“Did you follow her?”

He hung his head.

“Come on, laddie. Out wi’ it!”

“I called in sick one day and went to the wildlife park. As I approached, she was just driving off. I followed. She went to a disco. I followed her in. She was over at the bar with some lowlife, laughing and drinking. I went up to her and she threw her head back and laughed. I said, ‘What about a dance, Annie?’ and her face went all hard and the fellow with her said, ‘Bugger off or I’ll glass your face.’ ”

“What did he look like?”

“Greasy hair, black eyes, leather jacket, tattoo of a snake on his wrist, and a bit older than her. He frightened me. I got out of there. I was determined to stay clear of her, but after a few days, I… I…”

“You followed her again?”

“I waited outside her house one morning to try to speak to her but she said if I didn’t leave her alone, she would call the police. That frightened me. My valentine-well, it was one last desperate try.”

“Did you see her with any other man, other than this fellow at the disco?”

He shook his head.

“Did you know she took drugs?”

Percy looked shocked. “She couldn’t, she wouldn’t…”

“She did,” said Hamish flatly. “I’ll be talking to you again.”

Out in the hall again, Hamish said, “Back to Jessie.”

“How did you know she took drugs?” asked Josie.

Hamish told her what Jimmy Anderson had said. He opened the door to Jessie’s office. She was sitting at her computer typing busily.

“Stop for a minute,” ordered Hamish. “Did you know that Annie took drugs?”

“No!”

“Never talked about it? Never hinted?”

“Not a word.”

“I’ll be back to see you. Here’s my card. If you can think of anything, phone me up. There may be something you’ve forgotten.”

Hamish dropped Josie off at her car. “I’m going back to Lochdubh,” he said. “You may as well get home and change. Take it easy. The snow’s still light but it could get heavy any moment.”

Josie drove off, peering through the windscreen as the hypnotic flakes swirled and danced in front of her. At the manse, she changed into civilian clothes and brushed down her uniform and then went down to the kitchen to borrow an iron and an ironing board from Mrs. Wellington.

“You’ve had an exciting day,” said the minister’s wife. “Hamish is quite the hero. I saw him on the television rescuing that lion. Were you frightened?”

“All in the day’s work,” said Josie.