“Sit down, ladies,” barked Blair.
They sat down primly on two hard chairs and faced him.
A rising gale outside shrieked around the mobile police station.
“I hope you’ve got this van well anchored down, anchored down,” said Jessie. “The wind’s awfy strong, awfy strong.”
“Forget about the wind,” barked Blair. “Why did you murder John Heppel?”
“We didn’t, you silly man,” said Nessie.
“Where were you on the Monday night when John Heppel was murdered?”
“At what time would that be?”
“Between five in the evening and ten.”
“That’s easy,” said Nessie smugly. A great buffet of wind rocked the mobile police station, and the sisters held on to the edge of the desk.
“I said that’s easy,” shouted Nessie above the shriek and roar of the wind. “As representatives of the Lochdubh Mothers’ Union, we were visiting the Strathbane Mothers’ Union. We took the bus to Strathbane at four-thirty, and we didn’t get back until after ten.”
“I’ll check your alibi,” said Blair.
Both sisters rose to their feet.
“Oh, you do that, you daft auld man, auld man,” said Jessie.
“I’ll hae the pair of you for insulting a police officer.” Blair got up as well.
At that moment there was a tremendous howling, shrieking sound approaching down the loch.
The sisters, who knew the terrors of the sudden Sutherland storms which sometimes came roaring in from the Atlantic, scampered for the door and flung it open and escaped onto the waterfront.
A few moments after they had left, a mini-tornado picked up the mobile police van and threw it like a child’s toy into the loch before roaring on up and dying on the mountains.
Alistair Taggart, who had been sheltering in a doorway, ran across the road and down the steps to the pebbly beach. He stripped off down to his underpants, waded into the loch, and began to swim.
Blair was struggling and gasping. “I cannae swim,” he choked out.
Alistair grabbed him as he was about to sink. “Lie still,” he shouted, “and I’ll pull you in.”
Two constables who had been with Blair were already battling for the shore. The press had erupted out of the local bar and were busy filming as the wind howled and roared.
Blair was carried by the villagers into the pub.
Jessma Gardener, soaked and shivering, held out a microphone to Alistair, who was being wrapped in blankets. “You’re a hero. What is your name?”
“Alistair Taggart.”
“What do you do, Alistair?”
Alistair looked straight into the camera lens. “I am an author,” he said. “I write in the Gaelic.”
♦
Hamish found Jimmy in high good humour when he arrived at police headquarters in Strathbane. “Hamish, you’ve got to look at this video I made of the lunchtime news.”
“I’m anxious to get started.”
“You cannae miss seeing this.” Jimmy slotted in a video. “Sit yourself down, laddie, and be prepared for the show of the century.”
The windswept waterfront with the police mobile unit appeared. “This is an amateur video from Mr. Patel,” said Jimmy. “The press were all in the pub at the beginning of the action.”
Hamish saw the mobile police unit begin to rock dangerously. The door opened and the Currie sisters hurtled out. The wind propelled them at great speed along the waterfront. Then there was an almighty roar, and the camera swung to catch a black funnel racing down the loch. Hamish watched, fascinated, as the mobile unit was lifted up like a toy and thrown into the loch. Then he recognised Alistair Taggart running across the road.
The camera work became more expert as the Strathbane cameraman took over. Jimmy and Hamish watched as Blair was rescued. Then the scene switched to the pub, and there was Alistair Taggart. “His obsession for his writing must have taken over from his obsession with the booze,” commented Hamish. Alistair’s normally drink-swollen face was lean and craggy. Alistair made his statement about being a writer and then shrugged off praise from Jessma on his bravery. Then the camera swung to show a shot of a wet and miserable Blair wrapped in blankets.
Jimmy switched off the video. “It’s a pity the auld bastard didn’t drown. Let’s go.”
♦
Down in Edinburgh, literary agent Blythe Summer was giving last–minute instructions to his secretary. “You hold the fort while I’m away. If I can sign up this Gaelic writer, I think we might make a killing.”
His secretary, Maggie Gillespie, looked doubtful. “Who on earth can read Gaelic today?”
“Oh, it’s become a sort of cult. There are classes all over the place now. There’s a hotel up there. Book me in.”
♦
Hamish had been at Strathbane Television before during a murder investigation. As he and Jimmy walked through the doors, he felt as he had felt before: that they were entering some sort of closed world. He knew the executive staff had all been changed since the last takeover.
At the desk they asked to speak to Harry Tarrant, the drama executive, and were told to take a seat and wait.
“The higher up they are,” said Hamish gloomily, “the longer you have to wait. Have you seen Down in the Glen, Jimmy? Oh, I forgot. They usually only show sports in pubs.”
“I don’t spend my life in pubs,” said Jimmy. “Man, I thought you’d be in a better humour after seeing that video.”
Hamish shrugged. “I don’t know what it is about this place, but it gives me the creeps. Maybe it’s because there are so many egos bottled up in the same building.”
“Come on, you crabbit copper. I thought that Jessma Gardener was pretty nice.”
“Maybe.”
A secretary approached them and said in accents of stultifying gentility, “Mr. Terrent will see you now.”
“I thought his name was Tarrant,” said Hamish maliciously.
She did not deign to reply but led them through double glass doors to a lift, ushered them in, and pressed the button for the fifth floor. On the fifth floor they followed her through a long corridor to a door at the end. She knocked. A voice said, “Come!”
I hate people who say “Come,” thought Hamish.
She opened the door. “The pelice er heah, Mr. Terrent.”
A small man with a large black beard stood up from behind a massive desk. “That will be all, Miss Patty. Oh, wait a minute. I am sure the gentlemen would like some coffee.”
“Please,” said Jimmy.
“Good, good. Sit down. Two coffees, Miss Patty.”
“What ever happened to women’s lib?” asked Hamish when Miss Patty had retreated. “I thought it was no longer politically correct to order secretaries to fetch coffee.”
“Bugger political correctness,” said Harry. “That’s all old hat. Women have finally woken up to the fact that they are subservient. Now, how can I help you? Is it about poor John?”
“It appears he was murdered,” said Jimmy. “We wondered if he had bad relations with anyone here.”
“You surprise me,” said Harry. “We are one big happy family here. How can you even think such a thing? You saw the hate in those villagers’ faces.”
“Aye,” said Hamish. “But you see, I know these villagers very well, and I cannot think one of them could commit such an elaborate murder.”
“You keep calling it murder,” said Harry. “Last heard, poor John had left a suicide note.”
“We believe he was murdered with naphthalene,” said Hamish.
“What’s that?”
“You get it from mothballs.”
“Then it must have been someone in Lochdubh. The whole place is mothballed. I went there once and I thought, set your watch back one hundred years.”