by M C Beaton
“A tent up on the hills somewhere?”
“That’s an idea. I’d better get off and tour around again.”
Angela put a mug of coffee down in front of him. “Have your coffee first. What’s happened to that Russian policewoman?”
“Gone back to London, thank goodness. She fair gave me the creeps.”
“Have you seen much of Priscilla?”
“I have not,” said Hamish huffily. “Herself is either walking the hills with an Irishman who’s staying at the hotel or rehearsing her part with Harold Jury.”
“I might call on Harold Jury again,” said Angela. “I only met him briefly when he suggested I might like to play Lady Macbeth. It would be nice to discuss writing with another author.”
“He’s an odd character,” said Hamish. “I put him down as dead arrogant and yet when 1 went to one of the rehearsals, I must say I was surprised at his patience.”
“Have you read his latest book?”
“No. Any good?”
“I found it a bit dull but maybe that’s just me. I like stories, and that stream-of-consciousness business bores the pants off me. I’ll lend it to you.”
“Can’t be bothered. Well, I’m off.”
Hamish hovered in the doorway wondering whether to dare ask her to look after the dog and cat, but then decided that if he was simply going to search around the moorland and the foothills, he could take them with him.
The balmy weather had ceased, and Sutherland was gearing itself up for the long northern winter. Hamish hurried back to the police station, knowing he had better set off quickly—the sun went down at four in the afternoon.
Once the animals were put in the Land Rover along with lunch packed for all of them, Hamish drove up into the hills and along heathery little-used tracks, stopping occasionally at outlying crofts to ask if they had seen any campers.
He stopped for a picnic lunch. After his pets had been fed, he put them in the Land Rover and decided to roam across the moorland on foot before the light faded.
But all was peaceful and quiet apart from the sad piping of the curlews. Soon the shadow of the mountains fell over the landscape. He returned to the Land Rover, got in, and stared out at the fading countryside. His ruse was not working. There had been no more attempts on his life.
Back to Lochdubh, where a letter was lying on the doormat. He walked in, sat down, and opened it. It was from Elspeth. ‘This is just to say goodbye,’ she had written. ‘Let me know if anything happens. I’ve been called back but can come straight back up again if you’ve got any news. Elspeth.’
He looked at it sadly. No ‘Love, Elspeth,’ not even ‘Best wishes, Elspeth.’
Did he really want to marry her now? And why did he nurse that odd hankering for Priscilla? Why did he keep hoping that one day she would thaw out and become as passionate as the woman of his dreams?
The kitchen door opened and the fisherman Archie walked in. “We was coming back this morning, Hamish,” he said, “and I got a good look at thon folly from the sea. There’s a big chunk o’ the cliff has fallen and it’s perched there like a toy castle balancing on someone’s outstretched hand. It’s now only got the lip o’ the cliff to support it.”
“I’ll phone up Andrew Gentle and warn him,” said Hamish. “Sit down, Archie. Want some of that wine?”
“Na. I don’t know how thae actors survive on that bitter stuff. I thocht yours had gone off but they had some at the rehearsal and it was like drinking acid. I’ll take a dram.”
Hamish poured him a measure of whisky and then, after some hesitation, poured one for himself.
“You know what puzzles me, Archie?” said Hamish. “Everyone up here knows everyone else’s business. All I want to know is if someone’s seen a tall strange woman about, and no one’s seen anything at all.”
“Gamekeeper Geordie saw Priscilla and thon Irishman having a picnic,” said Archie. “You chust going tae stand by and let that happen? They was up by the Beithe Burn.”
“Archie, Priscilla can do what she likes.”
When Archie had left, Hamish found Andrew Gentle’s card and phoned to warn him about the perilous condition of the castle.
“There’s nothing I can do about it,” said Andrew testily. “I am sure if the damn thing falls into the sea, the insurance company will put it down to an act of God. I’ll come up in the spring, hire an architect, and see if anything can be done.”
It was only when he had rung off that Hamish realised he still had the key.
He could not settle down for the evening. He felt restless. He wanted to banish Priscilla’s bright image from a corner of his brain. He decided to take a run down to Inverness. It was late-night shopping, and if he hurried he could be there in time. He needed some new casual clothes.
He took Sonsie and Lugs with him. There were plenty of shops in Strathbane, the nearer town, but he wanted to get well away from Lochdubh.
But by the time he had battled round the crowded shops and bought new shirts and trousers, he was longing to get back to the peace of home. He bought kebabs for himself, the dog, and the cat, and fed them in the quiet street by the river where he had parked before setting out for home.
He decided to take the old way over the Struie Pass and whistled cheerfully as he zigzagged round the hairpin bends into Sutherland. He had just reached the famous viewpoint when the engine coughed and died. The petrol light was flashing empty. Hamish stared at it, puzzled. He had filled the tank just before arriving in Inverness. He got out with his torch, searched under the vehicle, and then shone the torch back along the road. There was no sign of any petrol leakage.
He opened up the petrol cap and put a dipstick in. The stick came out dry. He took a four-gallon tank of petrol out of the back of the Land Rover and poured it into the tank.
Still puzzled, he drove on. At the police station, he lifted his pets down from the vehicle, took the key down from the gutter, opened the kitchen door, and switched on the light.
“I don’t think you pair need anything more to eat tonight,” said Hamish. “Off to bed.”
He decided to have a cup of coffee. Coffee never stopped him from sleeping.
Hamish was about to open the fridge door when he glanced down at the floor. Soot from the stove had covered a little bit of the floor in a fine black layer, and in the middle was the faint imprint of a shoe.
He stared at it for a long moment. He guessed the wearer would take size seven shoes. That was the size of the shoeprints on the back stairs of the castle. Size seven, British, was size nine, American—and what was that in centimetres? Did anyone in Britain know their shoe size in centimetres?
Hamish carefully lifted the lid of the stove. He had left, as usual, sticks and kindling and firelighter. What he usually did was just toss a match in and replace the lid.
He bent down and sniffed. There was a smell of diesel.
He backed off and whistled to his pets. “Going for a walk,” he said, “and fast.”
He hurried along to the Italian restaurant, where Willie was wiping the tables for the night. Hamish rapped on the door. “We’re closed,” said Willie.
“It’s urgent,” said Hamish. “I need to phone headquarters. There’s a bomb in the police station.”
“Come in,” said Willie. “Michty me!”
Hamish took out his mobile phone. “Willie, start evacuating the houses around the police station. Do it quick.”
Willie ran off. Hamish got a sleepy Jimmy on his mobile number.
“Jimmy, get the bomb squad. I think someone’s put a fertiliser bomb in the stove in my kitchen. I’m in the Italian restaurant. Willie Lamont’s gone to evacuate the houses nearby. I’m off to help him.”
“Be with you fast,” said Jimmy, and rang off.
The night was frosty so Willie ushered several families into the restaurant. Mrs. Wellington, who had been telephoned for help, had taken the rest of those considered to be in the danger area up to the manse.
Hamish fre
tted and waited, only relaxing when he heard the sound of the sirens coming over the hills towards Lochdubh.
He walked along to the police station to meet Jimmy, who was standing there with an army bomb disposal unit.
“Tell the sergeant here about it,” said Jimmy.
Hamish described the footprint on the sooty floor and the smell of diesel.
“Any wires?” asked the sergeant.
“No. I looked.”
Two of his men went inside the police station. Hamish turned to Jimmy. “It was the same size as the footprint we saw in the castle.”
“Damn and blast it!” said Jimmy. “If this murderer thinks you know something, doesn’t he think it odd you’d keep it to yourself?”
“He may think Irena told me something that I haven’t yet figured out,” said Hamish.
The men came out, carrying something in a plastic forensic bag.
“Here it is,” said one. “A fertiliser bomb. Nice little homemade thing. All you need is newspaper, chemical fertiliser, cotton, diesel, and you’ve got your bomb. Someone put the fertiliser wrapped in newspaper at the bottom of your stove, then put cotton soaked with diesel on the top. If you’d lit your stove, it would have blown apart five hundred square metres—which would have dealt with you and your police station.”
“Hamish,” said Jimmy, “maybe we’re being sidetracked by the whole Gentle family. You don’t think there might be some Russian connection?”
“No, I don’t. They would have caught up with her before this.”
“Maybe not. Who’d think of looking for her in the north of Scotland?”
“We should be looking for someone fairly tall and slim with size seven feet,” said Hamish. “Might be a good idea to check Kylie Gentle’s alibi.”
People were returning to their houses. The forensic team arrived and went into the kitchen.
“I’m going to go up to the hotel and see if I can mooch a room,” said Hamish. “Oh, there’s another thing, Jimmy. I was coming back over the Struie Pass when I ran out of petrol. Now, I filled the tank up just before I got to Inverness. Say someone followed me down and drained most of the tank to immobilise me so that they could race back to the station and plant the bomb?”
“Might get something on CCTV,” said Jimmy. “Where were you parked?”
“Away down on a side street off the Ness Bank.”
“It’s a pity you were too cheap to pay for proper parking. You’d best leave the Land Rover and let the forensic boys look over it.”
“Could one of your lads give me a lift to the hotel?”
“Aileen will do that. Wait a minute.”
Jimmy went off and came back with a policewoman. “This is Aileen Drummond.”
Aileen was small and chubby with a cheeky face. When he got into the police car, Hamish said awkwardly, “I wonder whether you might stop at that Italian restaurant on the waterfront to pick up my dog and cat?”
“No trouble,” said Aileen.
But she flinched as Sonsie and Lugs were ushered into the backseat. “No,” said Hamish, before she could speak, “it’s not a wild cat.”
“Looks fair savage to me,” said Aileen.
“Are you from Glasgow?”
“Yes. Recognise the accent, did you?”
“It’s not as thick as Blair’s, but yes. What’s brought you up here?”
“I wanted to work in the Highlands but I landed in Strathbane, which is a sort o’ Glasgow in miniature but without the culture, without the restaurants, and without the posh shops. One great heaving underclass o’ criminals. You all right? Must be a hell o’ a shock finding a bomb in your kitchen.”
“I’m fine.”
“Here’s the hotel. Want to go in and get blootered? I could say you were in shock and needed tender loving care.”
“I don’t want to get drunk, and you’re driving.”
“Suit yourself.”
“Tell you what,” said Hamish, “I’ll stand you one drink.”
“You’re on.”
When Hamish went into the bar, he found Priscilla with Patrick and Harold Jury, sitting at a corner table and enjoying after-dinner coffees and brandies.
Priscilla rose and came to join him. “I heard about the bomb,” she said. “How are you?”
“Not bad, but I need a room for the night.”
Priscilla smiled. “Meaning a free room. I’ll get you one.”
Hamish introduced Aileen. When Priscilla went off to find a room for him, Hamish asked Aileen what she would like to drink. To his relief she ordered whisky and water. The few young women he had entertained often asked for peculiar mixtures or cocktails he had never heard of.
Elspeth struggled awake later that night. Her phone was ringing. It was the night desk. “You’re to get back up to the Highlands, fast,” said the night news editor. “That policeman was nearly blown up tonight. Someone put a bomb in his station.”
“Hamish, is he all right?”
“Yes, he escaped. They haven’t found anyone for those murders yet. They’ve had to let that Mark Gentle go. And stop taking your own photographs or there’ll be trouble with the union. I know you claimed they were taken by some highland fellow called Sean McSween, but no one’s ever heard of him and the picture editor’s swearing you made him up. So stop by the office and pick up Billy Southey.”
Elspeth scrambled out of bed and began to dress. Billy was a new photographer. She hadn’t been out on a story with him yet. She hoped he wasn’t a drunk.
Hamish had managed to get rid of Aileen after one drink by promising to take her out for dinner. He had fallen asleep almost immediately only to be awakened an hour later by the phone ringing loudly beside his bed.
It was Jimmy. “Daviot’s in a fair taking,” he said. “He wants you hidden away. He says the attempt on your life could have killed some villagers as well. You’re to pack your suitcase and come to headquarters tomorrow. I’ll get you an unmarked car, and you can drive it to wherever they’ve decided to hide you.”
“I should stick around. The only way we might catch this female is if there’s another attempt,” protested Hamish.
“Sorry, laddie. Orders are orders.”
Hamish realised after he had hung up that his pets must have been out of the police station when that bomb was planted or they would have attacked the intruder and might have been killed. Perhaps it would be better to go into hiding.
The next day, Detective Chief Inspector Blair arrived at police headquarters. He had checked himself out of rehab two days before. They had protested and told him they would send a report to Superintendent Daviot.
He made his way up to Daviot’s office. Secretary Helen smiled at him. She liked Blair, who occasionally bought her flowers and chocolates.
“We didn’t expect to see you for a while,” said Helen.
“I’m all right now.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Daviot is busy.”
“I’ll wait,” said Blair. “Any chance of a coffee?”
“Of course.”
Helen rose and went into the small kitchen next to her desk. The morning post was lying in a basket on her desk.
Keeping an eye on the kitchen, Blair riffled through it until he found an envelope with the name of the rehab on the front. He tucked it inside his jacket and retreated as Helen returned with his coffee.
“Who’s in there?” asked Blair.
“Mr. Anderson and Hamish Macbeth.”
“What’s up?”
“Didn’t you hear? Someone tried to blow up the Lochdubh police station last night. It’s the second attempt on Hamish’s life, so they’re going to hide him away. I had to start first thing this morning, phoning estate agents to find a suitable place.”
Blair paused, his coffee cup halfway to his lips. “Why’s someone trying to bump off yon loon?”
“The murderer seems to think Hamish knows something or something like that,” said Helen. “Really, that man is such a load of trouble.”
“Where did you find a place?” asked Blair.
“It’s top secret, you know, but of course there’s no harm in telling you. I found a cottage in Grianach. Ideal place. There’s just one road down into it.”
“Where is it?”
“Right up in the northwest of Sutherland, near the top.”
Hamish and Jimmy came out of the superintendent’s office. “You can go in now,” said Helen.
“And how are you?” asked Daviot, looking doubtfully at Blair. “I thought you were going to be away for a few weeks.”
“They decided I wasn’t an alcoholic,” lied Blair. “It was all a result of a dirty trick played on me by that Russian.” He described the vodka-drinking session and ended by saying, “You must see, sir, I couldnae do anything else, with her being a visitor and all.”
“I think, however, you should go home and get some more rest,” said Daviot. “Detective Inspector Anderson can cope with everything.”
Blair left in a foul mood. He could see the day approaching when he would be forced into early retirement and Jimmy Anderson would get his job. And he would hate to leave the force without first getting rid of Hamish Macbeth.
And then he had a brilliant idea. If some murderer was looking for Hamish Macbeth, why not help the murderer to find him?
He checked through his notebook and then headed down to the dismal tower blocks at the docks and was soon knocking on a dirty, scarred door.
“How are you, Tommy?” said Blair to the unsavoury creature who answered the door.
“I’m jist fine, so don’t you go trying tae pin anything on me.”
“I want you to do something for me. I’ll pay you. Or can I put it another way: If you don’t do it, I’ll have you back inside as soon as I can.”
“You’ll pay me?”
“Right. I want you to go over to Lochdubh, go to that bar on the waterfront, and spread a wee bit o’ gossip around.”
“Like what?”
“Let me in and I’ll tell you.”
Hamish drove an unmarked car down into the village of Grianach. Grianach, he knew, was the Gaelic for ‘sand,’ and sure enough there was a small sandy beach at the front of the tiny village. He had decided to call himself William Shore.
