by M C Beaton
Luckily for Hamish, there was no crime during the week of arduous training that he put in.
He was expected to police the games so, on the great day, he put on his uniform, put his running gear in a bag, nailed the cat flap shut because he knew if he took his pets they would try to run with him as they had when he was training, and set out for the games.
It was a fine day with only wisps of cloud across the blue sky. He was alarmed at the number of people who stopped him and said they had put money on him. Willie the gamekeeper was running a book and Hamish was tempted to arrest him for illegal gambling, frightened of all the money people would lose if he did not win, but he had never done such a thing before and decided to turn a blind eye.
At last, it was time for him to change and get to the starting line. As the pistol went off, he set off at an easy pace. Suddenly he did not care if he won or not. He was enjoying the beauty of the day and the exercise.
Up on the slopes of the moors, the Harris brothers rose from the heather and shouted, “Murderer! We’ll see you after the race.”
That night when he had pushed Prosser’s body up to the gully flashed into Hamish’s mind. If that evil pair had seen anything, then his career was over, not to mention his life in Lochdubh. Fuelled by a spurt of fury and anxious to get the race over and find out what they knew, he began to run like the wind.
When he approached the finishing line, he was deaf to the cheering crowd. He realised he had won. He looked around for the Harris brothers, but they were nowhere in sight. He changed back into his uniform and began to patrol the games again, stopping here and there to accept congratulations.
At the end of the day, he stood on the platform with the other prizewinners and accepted his cheque and a small silver cup.
As he finally stepped down from the platform, Ian Harris and Pete Harris suddenly appeared in front of him.
“You’ll chust cash that cheque on the Monday morning and gie us the cash,” said Ian, baring broken and blackened teeth in a grin.
“Come with me,” said Hamish. He walked quickly outside the field to his Land Rover.
“Now, why should I do that?” he demanded.
“We saw you, that nicht,” said Ian, “up at Fraser’s Gully, pushing thon dead man ower the edge.”
“Aye,” said Pete, “they’re didnae seem much point in mentioning it afore because everyone knows you havenae any money.”
Hamish surveyed them, his hazel eyes hard as agate. “So that’s where you keep your still,” he said.
They both looked at him in alarm.
“I’ve been looking for it. You murmur one word o’ this and I’ll be up there with a sledgehammer and I’ll smash the damn thing to pieces and then I might take it to you. And who’s going to believe you? A couple wi’ crime records or a policeman?”
There came a low snake-like hiss. Sonsie and Lugs were standing there. Sonsie’s eyes were blazing yellow.
“Get the cat away,” shouted Ian. “It’s the devil!”
“Are you going to be good?” asked Hamish.
“Oh, aye, aye, richt enough,” said Ian.
“Chust our wee joke,” said his brother. “We didnae see anything.”
They hurried off. Hamish looked down at his pets. “How did you get out?”
“I let them out.” Elspeth appeared from the other side of Hamish’s Land Rover. “They were making a noise, Sonsie howling and Lugs barking like mad. I let myself into the police station. You’d nailed the cat flap shut. They told me you were at the games so I brought them. Now, what were those villains talking about?”
“It’s a long story.”
“And it’s dinnertime,” said Elspeth. “You can buy me dinner and tell me about it.”
Stefan Loncar sat in a dismal cold room in Sofia in Bulgaria. He had been afraid that Prosser might have been waiting for him at the airport and so he had travelled overland, choosing Sofia as a good place to hide out. He had finally found some old British newspapers and learned of the death of Prosser and the arrest of the others. He was working as a dishwasher in a restaurant during the evenings. His pay was meagre and he could not afford any drugs apart from an occasional bit of cannabis. He sometimes wondered if he would not have been more comfortable in a British prison.
At dinner at the Italian restaurant, Hamish told her the whole story, knowing he could trust Elspeth.
When he had finished, Elspeth asked, with an odd look on her face, “Doesn’t that cat of yours ever frighten you?”
“Sonsie? No. Gentle as anything.”
“Do you believe people come back as animals?”
“That’s highland superstition!”
“I’ll tell you one thing, you nearly got married twice and I bet that damn animal from hell knew nothing was going to come of it. If you ever do fall in love, watch out, Hamish Macbeth!”
“You’re talking havers.”
“I know a jealous woman when I see one.”
“For heffen’s sakes, lassie. It’s a cat!”
“We’ll see,” said Elspeth. “We’ll see.”
Previous Hamish Macbeth Mysteries by M. C. Beaton
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 Celebrity
Death of a Dustman
Death of an Addict
A Highland Christmas
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 Gossip
Death of a Cad
Death of an Outsider
Death of a Perfect Wife
Death of a Hussy
Death of a Snob
Death of a Prankster
Death of a Glutton
Death of a Travelling Man
* See Death of a Dreamer (Grand Central Publishing, 2006).
Copyright
All characters in this book, including the village of Lochdubh, are figments of the author’s imagination and bear no relation to any person living or dead.
Copyright © 2011 by Marion Chesney
All rights reserved.
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