by M C Beaton
“She’s a librarian,” said Dick.
“I didn’t mean intellectually bright. She’s a small-town girl. She’s getting on for thirty. A chap in the council with his own home will be considered quite a catch in Braikie.”
“What a waste,” muttered Dick.
“I’m taking a few days off,” said Hamish suddenly.
“Is that all right with headquarters?”
“Cover for me.”
“Okay. Why don’t you and me take a holiday together?”
Just like Darby and Joan, thought Hamish gloomily. “It wouldn’t work,” he said. “They’d never let us go off together.”
“So where are you going?”
“Just a trip.”
“Where?”
“Mind your own business.”
The following morning, Dick looked suspiciously at Hamish as he set out, wearing his best suit and with his fiery hair brushed till it shone.
He’s going to see Elspeth, he thought. That’s all I need.
Hamish drove to Inverness airport and caught a plane to Glasgow. He then took a taxi to the television station where Elspeth worked. He was told that one of the staff was leaving and they had all gone for a celebratory lunch to Rogano’s restaurant. Hamish thought of his small bank balance. Rogano’s was an upmarket fish restaurant, and he wouldn’t have a chance to talk to Elspeth alone anyway. He told the receptionist he would wait.
He collected a cup of black coffee from the coffee machine. It was scalding hot. He took a small cardboard container from the watercooler and looked around for somewhere to pour off a bit of the coffee before adding cold water. His eye lit on three wineglasses and a bunch of grapes on a small white table. All the glasses of wine, white, red, and yellow, were half empty. He tipped some of his coffee into the red wine.
The receptionist shrieked. “You can’t do that! That’s an art exhibit. It’s called After Dinner and cost a fortune.”
“Sorry,” said Hamish miserably. “But if you tip out the red wine and half fill the glass no one will know.”
She scurried off and returned with a thin man with dangling earphones who was carrying a bottle of red wine and a jug and proceeded to repair the damage.
The day dragged on while Hamish tried to read magazines, looking up hopefully every time someone came through the doors.
At last Elspeth arrived with a crowd of people. She stopped short at the sight of Hamish. “What are you doing here?”
“I came to see you.”
“Why?”
“Just to see you,” said Hamish, suddenly wishing he had not come. She looked very sophisticated and not like the Elspeth of the Highlands.
“I’ve got to get to work. Look, if you can wait until after the six o’clock news, we’ll go out for a quick drink.”
She marched off towards the lifts.
Hamish gloomily looked at the magazines. They seemed to be full of features on celebrities he had never heard of. Suddenly he fell into a deep sleep, and he dreamt that Hetty was chasing him across the moors with a shotgun.
He woke to find Elspeth shaking him. “Let’s go,” she said. “I haven’t much time.”
They walked to a pub nearby.
“So what do you want to talk about?” asked Elspeth.
“I came to apologise. I felt I was rude to you the last time we met.”
Her face softened. “And you came all this way! You should have warned me.”
“I came on an impulse. Look, Elspeth, is there any hope for us?”
Her silver eyes surveyed him. “I wouldn’t want to leave my job here,” she said. “Would you want to leave Lochdubh and work for Strathclyde police?”
“No.”
“So you see, it’s hardly a case of the world well lost for love. I don’t want to go back there. You don’t want to come here. There’s your answer.”
“You could always give up work.”
“And live on a policeman’s salary? I’ve got used to all the comforts that money can bring, Hamish.”
“So there’s nothing more to be said?”
“No, let’s drop it. Tell me how things are in Lochdubh.”
They chatted away until Elspeth looked at her watch. “I’ve got to get back.”
“Can you put me up for the night?” asked Hamish.
“Sorry. Bad idea.”
Well, I tried, thought Hamish as he parked the Land Rover outside the police station. Dick looked anxiously as he walked in and then visibly brightened. “Would you like something to eat?”
“No,” said Hamish. “I just want to go to bed.”
“There’s an official-looking letter arrived for you.”
“Let’s see it.”
Hamish opened the letter and stared down at the contents in dismay. It was to tell him that the police station in Lochdubh was to be closed down. It would be sold off in six months’ time. Hamish dumbly handed the letter to Dick.
“They cannae dae that!” said Dick, looking wildly around.
“I’ll think o’ something,” said Hamish grimly.
In the morning, Hamish brushed and pressed his uniform trousers and removed several hen feathers from his regulation sweater. One of the epaulettes looked about to come loose, so he stitched it firmly on. Then he polished his boots until they shone.
“Where are you going?” asked Dick.
“To fight,” said Hamish. “Sonsie, Lugs, come along.”
He reflected as he walked out to the Land Rover that it should not be such a perfect day. Lochdubh dreamt in golden sunlight. Groups of villagers were standing outside Patel’s shop gossiping.
He put his pets in the back and drove off. As he passed the Tommel Castle Hotel, he saw Priscilla crossing the car park. He was about to stop, but decided to drive on. I’ve had enough o’ rejection, he thought, and thon one is a walking example.
Never would he work in Strathbane. He cursed Blair and Daviot and every creeping sneak that had ever plagued his career. Policing was about helping people, bringing justice, not meeting stupid government targets and crawling like mad in a scramble for promotion. Okay, people thought it was weird that he was not ambitious. But maybe Scotland could do with a few more unambitious policemen.
He went in to headquarters. As he passed the detectives’ room, Jimmy hailed him and came hurrying out. “I just heard the news, Hamish. Is there anything I can do?”
“You can’t. I can. Let me past.”
Jimmy stared after Hamish as he walked up the stairs. Blair’s jeering voice came from behind Jimmy. “Aye, there he goes. Off tae the scaffold.”
“You can’t go in there. He’s busy. I won’t allow it,” said Helen, trying to bar the way.
Hamish put her bodily to one side, opened the door, and marched in.
Daviot rose from behind his desk. “You can’t come in here without an appointment,” he said.
Hamish slammed a folder down on the desk.
“Have a look at that!”
Daviot opened the folder and turned a muddy colour as he found himself looking down at one of those dreadful photographs of his wife.
“You told me you’d destroyed these,” he cried.
“Keeping one is a dirty trick,” said Hamish, “but so is closing down my police station. I saved your job, sir. So look at it this way. No police station for me means no job for you. Did this order come from above? I can find out.”
“I was ordered to cut costs, and the policing could be done from here. We could give you a promotion.”
“I hate doing this,” said Hamish, “but if I must, I must. Give me back my station or this goes out to the newspapers.”
“I can be a dangerous enemy,” said Daviot.
“And I can be worse,” said Hamish.
Daviot put his head in his hands. Then he mumbled, “Your bloody police station is safe.”
Hamish picked up the folder.
“Leave that here!” shouted Daviot.
“Insurance,” said Hamish, and walke
d out.
He ought to feel triumphant, he thought as he climbed into the Land Rover. But he felt dirty. It’s as if I’ve become one of them, he thought.
He stopped up on the moors, well clear of Strathbane, and let the dog and cat out to chase each other through the heather. He stood beside the Land Rover, took off his cap, and threw it on the passenger seat. A jaunty little wind ruffled his red hair. Far up in the clear blue sky, a pair of mating buzzards dipped and turned.
“The hell wi’ all of them,” he said aloud. “It’s worth it.”
“Talking to yourself, laddie?”
Hamish swung round. The gnarled figure of an old crofter, Robbie Sinclair, appeared round the Land Rover.
“Why is it,” demanded Hamish, “that when I want a witness to a crime, no one’s seen anything, but when I have a wee chat with myself someone like you always creeps up out the heather?”
“Your sins will find you out,” said Robbie sententiously.
“Talking to myself isn’t a sin. Why am I even bothering to explain?” said Hamish. “What are you doing around here?”
“I was out for a dauner,” said Robbie, “and I saw the police vehicle. Got a ciggie?”
“No, I gave up smoking.”
“So did I,” said Robbie, “but I aye crave just the one. Well, I’d better get on. Some of us have work tae do.”
“Like what?” asked Hamish, but Robbie was already scuttling away across the moor.
Hamish went into the kitchen. Dick looked up with tears in his eyes. “I was just taking a look around, Hamish, and it’s breaking my heart.”
“Then you can mend your heart,” said Hamish. “I’ve saved the station.”
Dick rose, rushed round the table, and hugged Hamish. “Get off me, you daft bugger,” said Hamish, pushing him away.
“This calls for a drink,” said Dick. “I’ll switch the telly on now.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“Angela’s on the book show on the telly.”
“Right! Let’s have a look.”
Dick switched on the television and went to the cupboard where he kept all his goodies.
He brought down a bottle of Armagnac, then went through to the kitchen and came back with two glasses. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion.” He poured two glasses and handed one to Hamish. “Slainte!”
“Slainte,” echoed Hamish.
The book show opened to two presenters, a man and a woman, sitting on a sofa. Both were dressed identically in tartan shirts and jeans.
“Our first guest,” said the man, “is T. J. Leverage, whose detective story A Very Highland Murder is climbing up the charts. Come and join us, T. J.”
Angela appeared dressed in the full evening outfit she had worn for the sofa awards.
The woman presenter laughed. “Do you always wear full evening dress in the middle of the day, T. J.?”
“From time to time,” said Angela calmly. “I find standards of dress have slipped badly. Men and women seem to dress alike these days.”
“That’s my girl,” laughed Hamish. “She’s got herself a new backbone. I love that woman!”
“She’s married,” said Dick sharply.
“Oh, drink your drink and shut up,” said Hamish, feeling trapped again. He did not hear the rest of the interview because he became lost in a Walter Mitty dream where someone had taken lewd photographs of Dick and he, Hamish, was saying, “Leave my police station or these photos go to the press.”
As he walked along the waterfront later, he had a superstitious feeling that the old capricious gods of Sutherland were going to make him pay for his bad behaviour. He had involved Dick with a prostitute who had subsequently taken her life. He had just blackmailed his boss.
As he reached the doctor’s house, a cab drove up and Angela, still in full evening dress, got out.
“Did you see the show, Hamish?”
“Aye, all of it,” lied Hamish, who felt he could hardly tell her he had missed practically all of it, fantasising about blackmailing Dick out of the police station. “See you put the lot on.”
“I had to,” said Angela, paying off the cabbie. “It was hanging in my closet, accusing me of extravagance. I’d help that lassie with her rucksack if I were you.”
Outside Mrs. Mackenzie’s, a slight young woman was bent under the weight of a heavy rucksack.
Hamish walked up to her. “Help you with that?”
“Please. I’ve been walking and I am so fatigued.”
She had a French accent. Hamish helped her lift the rucksack from her shoulders. “Visiting?” he asked.
“Yes, I am tired of sleeping in the outdoors and someone told me that I could rent a room here.”
“Are you French?”
“Yes, from Lyons. But my mother was English.”
She smiled up at him. She had a little triangular face and big brown eyes. From her sensible walking gear drifted the aroma of some French perfume.
“All I need,” she said, “is a drink and a meal that I don’t have to cook.”
“Why don’t I help you in,” said Hamish. “I’ll take you for a meal. I am Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth.”
She dimpled up at him. Her eyelashes were very thick and long. “And I am Michelle Dulange. Is this a part of the local police service?”
“Oh, definitely,” said Hamish happily.
He helped her in and then waited outside.
Hamish was just beginning to think she had forgotten him when after twenty minutes she appeared wearing a white sweater over a short skirt and high heels.
In the Italian restaurant, waiter Willie Lamont ushered them to the table at the window. “A friend o’ Hamish’s?” asked Willie.
“I am a French tourist, and this policeman is kindly taking me for lunch.”
“The amount o’ French letters I’ve had,” said Willie, leaning against the table.
“We don’t want to know about your sex life, Willie,” said Hamish sharply.
Willie looked surprised. “Nothing to do with sex. I had a pen pal in Dijon when I was at school. I mind…”
“Go away and bring the menus,” ordered Hamish.
They ordered avocado and prawns followed by escalope Marsala. Hamish poured out wine and smiled at his pretty companion. “Tell me about yourself,” said Hamish.
She looked towards the window. “Who is that lady?”
Hamish followed her gaze. Priscilla stood outside, looking at them. He gave her a long, flat stare, trying to signal, don’t dare come in here. Priscilla walked on.
During the next few days, Hamish neglected his duties and took Michelle for long drives around the countryside. On her last night, Dick made them dinner. He noticed that Michelle showed no signs of leaving. He collected the dog and cat, drove up to the Tommel Castle Hotel, and begged a cheap room for the night.
In the morning, Hamish turned over in bed but Michelle was gone. It had been a night to remember. He quickly washed and dressed and hurried along to Mrs. Mackenzie’s. To his amazement, he learned that Michelle had left. He rushed back, got into the Land Rover, and drove out of Lochdubh. Just beyond the Tommel Castle Hotel, he saw her small figure under the large rucksack walking along the road. He parked and jumped out. “Michelle! Why did you leave just like that?”
“It was fun, wasn’t it?” she said. “Such a good time. But now I must keep to my schedule.”
“Marry me!” said Hamish desperately.
“Oh, my dear Hamish. I do love you.”
“Then marry me.”
“How can I say it? What is it people say? It’s a nice place to visit but I wouldn’t want to stay there. Besides, I have a cher ami waiting for me in Lyon. A good catch. His family has vineyards. Au revoir.”
Hamish miserably watched her go. He drove back to Lochdubh, got down from the Land Rover, and leaned on the wall overlooking the loch.
“Grand day,” said Archie Maclean, joining him.
“Do you understand women, Ar
chie?”
“Never have, never will. Where’s your French friend?”
“Gone off on her travels.”
“Aye, weel, some o’ the lassies are like that. They’ve become chust like us fellows. Easy come, easy go. Better get hame afore the wife comes looking for me.”
Hamish watched him walk away. He suddenly found that he was not suffering. The episode with Michelle seemed to be fading fast.
He looked around at the village of Lochdubh and at his police station.
He laughed. “My kingdom,” he said. “I wouldnae change it for the world.”
About the Author
M. C. Beaton has won international acclaim for her bestselling Hamish Macbeth mysteries, and the BBC has aired twenty-four episodes based on the series. Also the author of the Agatha Raisin series, M. C. Beaton lives in a Cotswold cottage with her husband. For more information, you can visit www.MCBeaton.com.
Previous Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C. Beaton
Death of Yesterday
Death of a Kingfisher
Death of a Chimney Sweep
Death of a Valentine
Death of a Witch
Death of a Gentle Lady
Death of a Maid
Death of a Dreamer
Death of a Bore
Death of a Poison Pen
Death of a Village
Death of a Celebrity
Death of a Dustman
Death of an Addict
Death of a Scriptwriter
Death of a Dentist
Death of a Macho Man
Death of a Nag
Death of a Charming Man
Death of a Travelling Man
Death of a Greedy Woman
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Snob
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Cad
Death of a Gossip
A Highland Christmas
Thank you for buying this ebook, published by Hachette Digital.
