by M C Beaton
To the side of the beach was a jetty with a lone fishing boat bobbing at anchor. The village consisted of a few fishermen’s cottages, a small church, and a general store and post office.
He went into the tiny dark shop. He wondered how it managed to survive. There was a musty smell of old grain and the scent of paraffin from a heater.
A small man appeared from the back of the shop. He was almost dwarf size, and Hamish felt an unreasonable stab of superstitious unease. For the fairies, which now only the old people believed in, were not glittery little things with wings but small, dark, troll-like men.
A half-remembered poem learned at school came into his head.
Up the rocky mountain.
Down the rushy glen.
We dare not go a-hunting
For fear of little men.
The shopkeeper had a thick thatch of black hair and bright green eyes. His face was sallow, his nose large, and his mouth very long and thin.
He asked Hamish in Gaelic what he wanted. With an effort, Hamish managed to reply in the same language, saying he was looking for Third Cottage.
The man replied that if he went out of the door, turned left, and went up the brae, the cottage was the last one on the left.
Hamish had brought groceries with him, but, to be polite, he bought a loaf of bread, two tins of baked beans, and a slab of Mull cheddar. Then he got back into his car and drove up a cobbled lane until he found the house. He unlocked the cottage door and went in.
The cottage was cold and smelled damp. There was a fireplace but no coal, peat, or logs. The living room was furnished with a scarred round table and two upright chairs. A couple of canvas director’s seats of the kind sold for a few pounds in petrol station shops were placed on either side of the fire. The floor was stone-flagged with only a ratty rug to cover a little of it. The kitchen was in a lean-to at the back, along with a bathroom whose tub was browned by peaty water. The toilet had the lid missing. The kitchen boasted a battered electric stove, an electric kettle, and a small fridge; in the cupboard were a few cups and plates along with a frying pan and one pot. Then there was the ‘best’ room, the one traditionally kept for funerals and weddings. It had a three·piece suite in uncut moquette, badly stained, a small television set, a standard lamp, and a badly executed oil painting above the mantelpiece of hills and heather.
He moved through to the bedroom: one double bed with army-type blankets and a slippery green quilt, a large old wardrobe, and a bedside table with the King James Bible on it.
He sighed and went back out to the car and let the dog and cat out. He carried in a box of groceries and then his suitcase and fishing rod and tackle.
He was just putting down bowls of water in the kitchen for the animals—glad he had brought bowls along, for there were none in the kitchen—when there came a knock at the door.
He opened it and looked down at the small, round woman who stood there. “I’ve brought you some of my scones,” she said. “I’m Ellie Mackay from ower the road.”
“That’s verra kind of you. Come ben,” said Hamish. “Would you like some tea?”
“No, I’ve got to get on.” She had a cheerfully rosy face and grey hair showing from under a headscarf.
“Do you know where I can get some peats or coal?” asked Hamish.
“There’s a wee shed in the back garden,” she said. “There wass stuff in there. This wass supposed to be a holiday let but the holiday folk last time round took wan look at the place and cleared off.”
“I’m right surprised you get any visitors at all.”
“Oh, we get a busload every second week.”
“Tourists?”
“Aye, it’s a firm what calls itself Discover Secret Scotland.”
“Surely they pack up after the summer. There’s hardly any light up here now.”
“They come round the midday. A blessing it is, too. There are a few folks here that carve wooden things—you know, little statues, candlesticks, things like that. Callum down at the stores sells them. He only speaks the Gaelic to them because they love that. But when the bus arrives, we’ve got stalls out on the harbour.”
“Where’s the best place to fish?”
“If you go on up the road a bit, you’ll come to the Corrie River. You don’t need a permit and if you’re lucky, you might be getting a few trout.”
After she had gone, Hamish went out to the shed in the garden and found slabs of peat stacked up, a sack of coal, a pile of logs, and some kindling. He was amazed the locals hadn’t raided it.
He decided to go fishing while it was still light and set off for the river with his rod, the dog and cat following behind. He fished contentedly, catching four trout before the sky turned pale green, heralding the long, dark winter night.
The bus was a problem, but no one knew where he was, so he had nothing to fear. Back at the cottage, he lit the fire in the ‘best’ room, glad that it seemed to be drawing well, and then went through to the kitchen. He gave Sonsie a trout and fried up some deer liver he had brought with him for Lugs. Then he dipped two trout in oatmeal and fried them for his supper along with boiled potatoes and peas.
After dinner, he lay on the sofa after throwing a travel rug over it, and settled down to read an American detective story. Hamish liked American detective stories where the hero seemed to be always partnered with some beautiful female with green eyes and high cheekbones. He liked particularly the ones that were comfortingly familiar. The hero would at one point be suspended and then brought back with the grim warning “You’ve got twenty-four hours.” He got to the bit where the hero was beating up the villain. Good thing he’s not in Britain, thought Hamish cynically, or the villain would sue for assault.
His mobile phone rang. He sat up and tugged it out of his pocket.
It was Elspeth.
“How are things in Grianach?” she asked.
Although the fire was blazing, Hamish felt suddenly cold.
“How did you know?” he asked.
Ten
In the highlands, in the country places,
Where the old plain men have rosy faces,
And the young fair maidens
Quiet eyes
—Robert Louis Stevenson
“Everyone in Lochdubh seems to know, Hamish. I was sent back up to cover the bomb. Shall I come and join you? Are you on holiday?”
“Is that what they are saying?”
“You know this village. Chinese whispers. But certainly that seems to be the sum total of it.”
“Elspeth, leave me alone for a bit. But you might have a story down there. I was sent up here to stop the murderer from finding me and trying again. If you can find out who was spreading the news about me, you’ll at least find someone who’s interested in seeing me dead. And get back to me if you’ve found out anything.”
“All right. Give me a few paragraphs about the bomb in the kitchen.”
Hamish gave her a brief description.
“I know Grianach,” said Elspeth. “Weird place. They make wooden things.”
“That’s right. Trouble is, a tour bus comes every two weeks.”
“And you think the murderer might travel that way to find you?”
“Perhaps. But probably too complicated.”
The next morning, Hamish went out to explore the village. It nestled at the foot of steep cliffs, and any car approaching from outside could clearly be seen on the one-track road down into it. There was a horseshoe bay in front of the village, the waters calm in an unusually placid day. Far out beyond the bay, he could see the whitecaps of the great Atlantic waves.
He sat down on a bollard on the jetty. It was all so remote and peaceful. The air smelled of tar, fish, baking, and peat smoke.
A voice behind him said, “Enjoying the view?”
Hamish stood up and turned round. “I’m James Fringley,” said the man. “I heard you’ve arrived.”
Racking his memory for who he was supposed to be, Hamish remembered suddenly
that he was supposed to be Mr. William Shore.
“William Shore,” he said, holding out his hand. “You’re English.”
James was a small dapper man dressed in a Barbour and jeans. Hamish judged him to be in his fifties. He had silver hair, carefully barbered, and neat features.
“Are you visiting like me?” asked Hamish.
“No, I live here. I used to be a bank manager but I took early retirement. We’re about to start setting up the stalls. The bus arrives today.”
“I’m surprised a tour bus found this place.”
“I wrote to them,” said James. “What with the fishing dying off, I thought it would be nice to help the villagers. Do you know, the European Union cut the cod and fishing quotas last December and Scotland wasn’t even represented? Luxembourg was there. One tiny landlocked country having a say. It’s mad. We’ve a lot of home industry now, and every month or so I load up the van and go south to flog the stuff around the shops. I mean, look at the beauty of this place. A man would do anything to keep it as grand as this. I’m off to the church hall to start helping with the stalls.”
“I’ll come with you,” said Hamish.
“You’re highland, aren’t you?” asked James curiously. “What brings a highland tourist here?”
Hamish was blessed with the Highlander’s facility to lie easily and convincingly. “It was the wife,” he said. “She threw me out. I thought if I went away for a bit, she’d come to her senses.”
“That’s bad. Got children?”
“No, we’ve only been married three months. I blame her mother,” said Hamish bitterly. “Awfy auld queen. What about you?”
“Mine died of cancer. We didn’t have children. I came here four years ago on holiday and decided to stay. Probably the last place in Britain where you can buy a cheap house.”
The figures of the villagers could be seen approaching the church hall. “They’re all verra small,” said Hamish.
“Maybe inbreeding, but they’re all sane enough.”
Hamish helped to carry trestle tables down to the harbour. Then the villagers started to set out their wares. Hamish was amazed at the wood carvings. They were very good indeed. One stall had beautiful lengths of tweed. “That’s your neighbour, Ellie,” said James. “She’s got a loom in a shed in her garden.”
Hamish decided to buy presents before the bus arrived. He bought a wooden salad bowl for his mother, two carved candlesticks for Angela, and an attenuated wood sculpture of a woman for Priscilla.
The prices were remarkably reasonable. Then he noticed a carving of a man, a flat bloated man whose face was set in a horrible sneer. It looked remarkably like Blair. Hamish bought it as a present for Jimmy.
Then he thought how much his mother would like some tweed and bought a length of a heathery blue-and-pink mixture.
He carried all his purchases back to his cottage and returned just in time to see the tour bus make its precipitous descent of the cliff road. He walked behind a shed at the end of the harbour and looked around. The bus was full—full of elderly ladies and two elderly men.
He came out of hiding and walked towards it. Two were being helped into wheelchairs. Some walked with sticks.
Hamish went up to the tour guide, a slim woman in a yellow suit. “Where are this lot from?” he asked.
“A retirement home in Perth,” she said. “Great for us. They booked the whole bus, and this is a quiet time of year. I’d better go and help them with their purchases.”
Hamish was pleased to see that sales were brisk.
After half an hour of buying, the tour operator called out, “If you will make your way to the village hall, there is a buffet lunch.”
Hamish thought a free meal was just what he needed after having spent so much, but when he got to the hall, James was at the door. “Six pounds for the lunch, William, and cheap at the price.” Hamish paid up.
He collected a plate of cold chicken and salad from the buffet and sat down next to one of the elderly gentlemen who turned out to be stone deaf, so Hamish contented himself by studying the women just in case one of them might look like someone in disguise. But for a start, not one of them was tall enough to fit the description of the woman who had made that phone call.
Superintendent Daviot was told that a Miss Elspeth Grant of the Bugle was waiting to speak to him.
He hesitated. But he was wearing a new suit and thought he looked very fine. “Does she have a photographer with her?” he asked.
“Yes, a sour-faced Glasgow type,” said the sergeant at the front desk.
“Send them up,” said Daviot.
He brushed back his silver hair and asked Helen to prepare coffee and biscuits. He had met Elspeth before but not the photographer, who was a sullen, middle-aged man with a bloated face.
“Do sit down, Miss Grant,” purred Daviot. “We have met before.”
Elspeth indicated the photographer, who was crouched on the floor, taking cameras out of his box. “That’s Billy Southey.”
Helen came in with a laden tray. Elspeth waited until coffee had been poured and Helen had left before saying, “I hear Hamish Macbeth is hiding out in Grianach.”
Daviot looked at her in shock. “Who told you that?”
“It’s all over Lochdubh, and I want to know why. Some man turned up at that bar on the waterfront and started shooting his mouth off. The thing is, if it was supposed to be such a secret, how did it leak out?”
“I will look into it right away. I do not want you to write anything just now. It is a matter of PC Macbeth’s security.” He pressed a buzzer on his desk. When Helen entered, he ordered her to get Jimmy Anderson up immediately.
Blair was lurking around the detectives’ room. He was waiting to see Daviot to explain he was ready to return to work. He hated the idea of Jimmy being in charge.
A policewoman appeared and called to Jimmy, “You’re to go up to the super’s office right away, sir.”
“Now what,” grumbled Jimmy, heading for the door.
In Daviot’s office, Elspeth was saying, “He was a thin, scruffy man in his forties. Looked like a druggie.”
“It’s a pity no one got a photograph,” said Daviot.
“Oh, but they did. A photographer from the Highland Times was out taking pictures for the calendar. I looked through them. He’s got a shot of the harbour and people on the waterfront, and that looks like our man.”
She was carrying a manila envelope which she opened, pulling out a glossy photograph just as Jimmy entered the room.
Daviot outlined what had happened and said to Jimmy, “See if you recognise the man.”
Jimmy looked at the photograph. It showed a group of people outside Patel’s grocery store. He pointed to a man in the middle of the group. “That’s Tommy Shields, drug pusher and addict. I’ll find him.”
Billy began to rapidly pack up his cameras as Elspeth rose to go. “Elspeth,” said Jimmy, “come down to the detectives’ room and I’ll take a statement from you.”
No photographs, thought Daviot, disappointed. The new suit would have looked grand.
Blair looked up as Jimmy came hurrying in. “Do you know someone called Tommy Shields?”
Feeling as if he had just gone down in a very fast elevator, Blair said, “No, what’s he done?”
“Never mind,” muttered Jimmy, switching on the computer.
“I am your senior officer,” raged Blair.
“Aye, sir, but you’re not supposed to be here. Find a chair, Elspeth, and I’ll take your statement. On second thoughts, I’ll take it later. I’d like to find this Tommy Shields first.”
Blair lumbered to his feet and headed rapidly out of police headquarters. He had to get to Tommy before they did.
He got in his car and raced down to the tower block by the docks. The lift was broken and he had to hurry up the filthy stairs, stopping on each landing to catch his breath. At last he reached Tommy’s door and hammered on it.
There was no reply. Frantic wit
h fear, he took a small cosh out of his pocket, smashed one of the glass panes on the door, and, reaching inside, turned the handle.
There was a foul smell of booze and a sweetish smell of decay. He went into the bedroom. Tommy was sprawled across a dirty bed with a needle stuck in his arm. Blair felt for a pulse and found none.
“There is a God,” muttered Detective Chief Inspector Blair, and he fled from the flat, taking the stairs two at a time. He gained the sanctuary of his car and drove off—just in time. Two police cars swept past him going towards the tower blocks.
He had worn thick gloves the whole time, except when he had felt for that pulse. Could they get a fingerprint off a dead body? They surely wouldn’t be looking for one. Of course, the fact that the flat looked broken into would start them thinking about murder, but the only fingerprints they would find on that syringe would be Tommy’s.
Well, that pillock Macbeth would be safe now. He wouldn’t hang around Grianach waiting to be murdered.
But that was just what Hamish Macbeth proposed doing. He told an angry Jimmy Anderson that it was their only hope of catching the murderer.
“I’ll see if I can get Daviot to agree to it,” said Jimmy finally, “but we haven’t got any spare men to go all the way up there on the off-chance. We found the informant.”
He told Hamish about Tommy Shields.
“That iss verra interesting,” said Hamish, the sibilance of his accent showing he was upset. “If you’ve got any spare time, see if Blair ever arrested the man.”
“Do you mean to say Blair was behind this?”
“Wouldn’t surprise me. I’m not saying he murdered the man, but if he got there before you and found him dead, he must ha’ been verra relieved.”
“Hamish, even if I found out Blair was behind it, I doubt if Daviot would believe me. I went up to tell him about Tommy when I got back and there was a big bunch of flowers on his desk. Daviot said, “Aren’t they lovely? So nice of Mr. Blair to remember my wife’s birthday.” Look, I’ll give you a day or two longer and then you’d better get out of there. Go somewhere else.”
“I’ll go back to Lochdubh. I’m not going to run away any more.”
