by M C Beaton
He was awakened five hours later by the sound of a large crash from the kitchen. He struggled out of bed and hurried through to find Charlie gazing miserably at a shattered milk jug on the floor.
“I’m right sorry, Hamish. I heard ye had a rough night so I thought I’d make you breakfast.”
“It’s all right,” said Hamish, scrubbing the sleep from his eyes. “I never use that milk jug anyway. I aye just put the bottle on the table.”
“I gather the case is solved,” said Charlie. “Malky Hartford of all people.”
Charlie stooped and shovelled up pieces of china into a dustpan, put them in the bin, and then mopped up the floor.
“I’ll shower and shave,” said Hamish, “and we’ll talk about it. Where’s the inspector?”
Charlie blushed. “Herself gone to consult wi’ Daviot and the procurator fiscal and then she’s off to Inverness.”
Hamish eyed Charlie and thought, I hope he hasn’t been seduced.
He washed and dressed and went back to the kitchen, where Charlie was frying up a large pan of venison sausage. “I put a bit extra on for Lugs and Sonsie,” said Charlie. “They’re right partial to a bit o’ venison. One egg or two?”
“Two, please.”
“It’s like the nightmare is over,” said Charlie. “Mind you, I’d never ha’ believed it o’ Malky.”
“You knew him?”
“Aye. A wee druggie. Do anything for a fix. But a handsome lad for all that. But murdering people! I cannae believe that. Now it turns out that lassie up in Kinlochbervie was poisoned wi’ antifreeze. That’s a slow, vicious death. Still, drugs can change folks’ characters. Just as well for Andrew and his missus. They werenae in Somerset.”
Hamish sat down at the table. “Where were they?”
“In Edinburgh.”
“What were they doing?”
“It’s a high-class wife-swopping club. Most of them English.”
“Crivens!” said Hamish, a picture of Andrew’s angular wife appearing in his mind. “Talk about Anglo-Saxon attitudes!”
“The inspector was going to charge both of them wi’ perverting the course of justice, or defeating the ends of justice as we say in Scotland, when she got the news that the murders were solved. She was so delighted that she let them off with a caution.”
Charlie put four sausages and two eggs on a plate and put it on the table along with a pot of tea.
“I cannae believe it’s all over. Did you and herself celebrate?”
Charlie bent over to put sausages into the animals’ bowls. “No time for that,” he mumbled.
I do believe they’ve been and gone and done it, thought Hamish. Damn the woman. What now? Will she get a divorce? Will I lose this decent copper who suits me just fine?
Instead, he said, “I put my report in. Do they want anything more from me?”
“I shouldnae think so,” said Charlie, easing his great height down onto a kitchen chair and helping himself to tea. “Daviot is holding a press conference and taking all the credit, no doubt. If you don’t want me for anything today, I thought maybe me and George, I mean the colonel, might take the rods out.”
“Fishing season’s over, Charlie.”
“I meant, take the boat out and maybe get some fresh mackerel.”
“Go ahead. I’ll eat this and take Sonsie and Lugs for a walk. It looks like a grand day.”
When he walked along the waterfront, dressed in comfortable old clothes, having decided to give himself the day off, Hamish looked at the little white houses of the village and wondered why he could not experience any feeling of relief.
He saw the Currie sisters approaching. Had he not had the dog and cat with him, he would probably have jumped over the wall onto the beach to escape them. He always thought of the spinster twins as the Greek chorus of Lochdubh. Doom and gloom from the pair of them.
“I see that clever Mr. Daviot solved the case for you,” said Nessie.
“Solved,” intoned her sister.
“It is just as well someone was on the job and not lazing around with a dog and cat,” said Nessie.
“Dog and cat,” moaned her sister.
“Oh, shove off, the pair of you,” said Hamish. They stared up at him, shocked eyes behind thick spectacles, rigidly permed white hair, and crumpled white faces, the skin like tissue paper.
They marched off.
“Sorry!” shouted Hamish after them. “I’m so sorry.”
He scratched his fiery hair in distress. What had come over him?
He saw the fisherman Archie Maclean sitting on the wall outside his little cottage at the harbour and went to join him.
“I’m going daft,” said Hamish. “I’ve just insulted the Currie sisters.”
“They’ll get over it,” said Archie. “I hear those murders have been solved.”
“Yes, it’s all over,” said Hamish. But he experienced the first sharp pang of doubt.
“You’d better settle down now and find yourself a wifie,” said Archie.
“I’m beginning to think I have no luck at all in that direction,” said Hamish.
Archie deftly rolled up a cigarette, shoved it in his toothless mouth, lit it, and said, “You should ask the fairies.”
“You don’t believe in that rubbish, do you, Archie?”
“All you do,” said Archie, “is put out a bit o’ milk, salt, and iron outside your door and wait.”
“You’re joshing. I’m off to get some weight off these beasties o’ mine.”
When Hamish returned to the police station, he saw with a mixture of irritation and amusement that outside the kitchen door Archie had placed a small saucer of milk, a little open glass jar of salt, and a piece of iron.
Well, thought Hamish with a shrug, if I had a wife like Archie’s, I’d need to believe in something daft to keep me going. Archie’s wife was a fanatical housecleaner. She boiled all the household laundry in an old-fashioned copper, including Archie’s trousers and jackets—which explained why the fisherman always went around in tight clothes.
He passed the day cleaning up the police station and giving his small flock of sheep winter feed.
He walked the dog and cat again, wondering whether to call on the Currie sisters and apologise, but found himself unable to face up to it.
When Hamish walked back into the police station, he experienced a sharp pang of loneliness. There was no point in going to join Charlie, because the big policeman would be settling down for a family evening with the colonel and his wife.
Sonsie came up and put a large paw on his knee. “You don’t believe in the fairies, do you, Sonsie? Load o’ superstitious rubbish!”
There came a sharp scream of rising wind which rattled the kitchen door. Hamish stood, startled.
Then the door opened and Elspeth Grant walked in. “It’s me,” she said. “You look as if you’ve seen a ghost.”
“I’m fine. Sit down. Windy out?”
“No, it’s as still as the grave. Going to be a sharp frost. I’ve just been down to Strathbane. Boring footage of Daviot. I suppose you broke the case.”
“In a way.”
“So it’s all over?”
“I suppose. We’ll never know. I am sure that Malky’s family will sue the socks off the council.”
“I’ve tried to interview the provost, but he’s hiding behind his lawyer and everyone else in the council has been taught to say, ‘No comment.’”
Elspeth was wearing a silver puffa jacket that matched the colour of her odd eyes. She shrugged it off. Underneath she was wearing a blue cashmere sweater. She had small, high, firm breasts.
“I’ve got a bottle of Hungarian champagne out in the shed,” said Hamish. “We could have a glass to celebrate.”
“Bring it on, just so long as it doesn’t have any antifreeze in it.”
“That was Austria,” said Hamish, referring to an old scandal.
He went out to the shed. The champagne had been a present from a grateful woman
after Hamish had tracked down her lost dog. Antifreeze, he thought suddenly. That’s what killed Jessie McGowan. Now, why would someone like Malky get to hear about her? And even if he had, would Malky, a druggie and city boy, believe in anyone being able to have the second sight? Even if he did, the second sight meant the future.
Elspeth appeared behind him, making him jump. “I thought you’d got lost,” she said.
“No. Just thinking. It’s right cold. Let’s get indoors.”
On the way in, Elspeth glanced down at the milk, salt, and iron. “Didn’t know you were a believer, Hamish.”
“I’m not. It is just Archie’s nonsense.”
She gave a sudden shiver. “Now, why do I suddenly feel you are soon going to need a lot of protection?”
Hamish looked down at her uneasily. He knew from past experience that Elspeth, who came from a Gypsy family, was psychic.
He lifted two wineglasses down from the cupboard. “I havenae got champagne flutes. These’ll need to do.”
“There’s been a recent report that flutes are out of fashion,” said Elspeth. “Something to do with them spoiling the taste.”
Hamish popped the cork and filled two glasses.
“Here’s to a quiet life,” he said.
“Here’s to your safety,” said Elspeth. “So let’s have it, Hamish. You don’t think Malky did the murders. How did that detective die?”
“Willie? The latest was smoke inhalation. Now, that could have been Malky. He was in cahoots wi’ Gloria. He may not have known that Willie would be in the office. It was a Sunday morning. I had an appointment with him.”
“How was the fire started?”
“Oily flaming rags shoved through the letter box. That might indeed have been Malky. But there’s another thing.”
He told Elspeth about Willie spying on Fiona. “I’m sure that could have been Blair. The inspector is keen on Charlie, and it shows.”
“Blair’s a monster,” said Elspeth, “but I can’t believe he would murder Willie.”
“He may not have known he was in the office.”
“If I were you,” said Elspeth, “I would take time out and forget about the whole thing and clear your mind of every idea. Maybe then you’d hit on something.”
Elspeth then began to talk about her job and her seemingly eternal fears of being replaced permanently by another presenter while she was off in the Highlands reporting until they realised with surprise that they had finished the bottle of champagne.
If only, thought Hamish wistfully, we could roll into bed and make love for the rest of the day. But as if she had read his mind, Elspeth put on her coat and said abruptly, “Thanks for the drink.”
“Will I see you again this trip?”
“No, I’m heading off south,” said Elspeth.
As she walked to the car she had borrowed from the hotel, not wanting to take the large television van down to the police station, she had a sudden urge to turn back. She had lied to Hamish. She had planned to prepare her report and leave on the following morning. She could have invited Hamish to dinner.
Hamish was leaving the police station to walk the dog and cat. He looked down in disgust at Archie’s offerings to the fairies and gave the lot a kick with his regulation boot and sent them flying.
Elspeth had half turned back when a voice in her head said, Going to get hurt again?
She squared her shoulders, got into the car, and drove off.
As he walked along, Hamish saw a sign outside the church hall, TAI CHI EXERCISES.
A faint sound of Asian music tinkled through the frosty air. Curious, he walked up to the village hall and quietly pushed open the door. Eight village women, dressed in sort of satin pyjamas, were slowly following movements by an instructor, who, Hamish realised, was none other than Mrs. Wellington. He had seen tai chi exercises on television and they had been nothing like this. The women seemed to be all sharp, awkward movements.
“The hell wi’ this,” said Mrs. Patel, sitting down suddenly on the floor. “I feel right daft.”
The other women followed suit. “Now, ladies,” boomed Mrs. Wellington in distress. “On your feet. Now!”
Muttering rebelliously, they started again. Hamish fled the church hall and hung on to the fence, laughing. He felt better than he had done for a long time.
When he returned to the police station, he saw Charlie’s old Volvo parked outside. The tall policeman got out of the car when he saw Hamish arriving.
“I should ha’ reported in earlier,” said Charlie, “but I overslept.”
There was a miserable hangdog air about him.
“Come in and have coffee,” said Hamish. “No, better still. Let’s walk along to the Italian’s and have a wee celebration. I suppose the case is closed.”
They walked in silence to the restaurant. Inside, Lugs and Sonsie vanished into the kitchen.
“Now,” said Hamish when they had placed their orders. “Out wi’ it.”
“Out wi’ what?” demanded Charlie mutinously.
“You look miserable and guilty as sin. Is it our inspector? I thought she’d cleared off.”
Charlie stabbed his fork into the new tablecloth. “Here!” screeched the waiter, Willie Lamont. “Thon’s a new cloth. You’re a right wondle.”
“I suppose you mean vandal,” said Hamish. “Shove off and get the food.”
When Willie had gone, Hamish said gently, “What has she done?”
Charlie heaved a great sigh. “Do you believe in hell?”
“Of course not.”
“I was brought up Wee Free,” said Charlie, meaning the Free Presbyterians. “A woman taken in adultery is a sin.”
“Damn the woman!” said Hamish. “She seduced you.”
“Well, Hamish, it takes two. Aye, we spent the night together. I told her I loved her and I would make an honest woman of her and she laughed her head off and said it was only a fling.”
“Here’s the wine. Have a glass. It’s my belief you were more sinned against than sinning.”
“I felt such a rage, I damn nearly broke her neck. Oh, I’m so ashamed. Will God forgive me?”
“Look, Charlie, I cannae believe in a God who punishes or even rewards because they are both human failings. Forget it. Put it down to experience. Were you a virgin?”
Charlie shook his head. “Just the odd widow here and there.”
“Not here I hope,” said Hamish sharply. “Don’t shit on your own doorstep.”
“No, no, I promise you that.”
“Look, after we eat, we’ll go to the manse and you tell the minister about it. He’s a genuine Christian and you need one o’ those. Then I’d like to go down to Strathbane on the quiet and see if I can talk to people who knew Malky. There’s something nagging me. Okay, Andrew and his wife were at some wife-swopping party in Edinburgh. One of them could have slipped out and driven north. Anyway, it would make me feel easier. We won’t wear our uniforms and we’ll take your car.”
After lunch, they left the animals at the station and walked up to the manse. To Hamish’s relief, there was no sign of Mrs. Wellington.
Mr. Wellington led them into his dark and gloomy study. “Charlie here needs help,” said Hamish.
The minister listened carefully as Charlie blurted out his story. When Charlie had finished, Mr. Wellington said, “I have seen the inspector. She is a much older woman, is she not?”
Charlie nodded.
“Married?”
He nodded again.
“You have been preyed upon by an older, experienced woman,” said Mr. Wellington. “You must ask the Lord to heal your hurt. But the fault lies with her. There are plenty of bonny lassies in the Highlands, and I suggest you find one. What do you feel now?”
“I feel like you do when you’ve been drinking too much the night afore,” said Charlie, “and you wake up feeling dirty and smelly.”
“That’s good. A broken heart is a more difficult matter. Is your heart broken?”
&nb
sp; Muddled thoughts like cloud shadows chased across Charlie’s face. “I think it’s all right, sir.”
“Grand. Be more careful next time. There are harpies around. Not,” added the minister wistfully, “that I have ever met one.”
The door crashed open and Mrs. Wellington appeared. “What is going on here?”
“Charlie here is Wee Free,” said Hamish, “but he’s thinking o’ changing to the Church of Scotland. Come along, Charlie.”
Outside, Charlie said, “That man’s a saint.”
“He’d have to be, married to a wife like that,” said Hamish.
Chapter Eight
O, wally, wally, gin love be bonnie
A little time while it is new!
But when ’tis auld it waxeth cauld
And fades awa’ like morning dew.
—Scottish ballad
But when they arrived at the tower block, it was to find the area swarming with council officials.
“We can’t hang around here,” said Hamish, “or we’ll be caught by someone from Strathbane. I know a café where the druggies hang out.”
The sky above had darkened and a little hard flake of snow drifted down, followed by another. By the time they entered the café, a full blizzard was blowing outside. Hamish looked around. “See anyone from your days down here?” he asked.
“Aye, over in the corner,” said Charlie. “Jonty Hill. Used to give me wee bits o’ information.” They collected cups of tea from the counter and joined Jonty, who squinted up at them nervously. He was an ill-favoured youth with a pasty face and greasy hair. He was huddled into a stained donkey jacket. “It’s yourself, Charlie.”
“What can you tell us about Malky?” asked Charlie. He took out a twenty-pound note and rolled it in his fingers.
Jonty eyed it greedily. “Malky was a right nice wee guy. All this talk about him being some sort of serial killer is havers. Wouldnae even kill a cockroach.”
