“Right. I’ll take him in. Don’t you want to come back with us and rub Blair’s nose in it?”
“No, I’m fine. You go ahead.”
“He’ll try to take the credit.”
“Let him.”
“Hamish, you could get that friend of yours, Angela, to look after Lugs. You don’t want Daviot to hear how you solved the case in case he promotes you out of Lochdubh.”
“Maybe.”
“I think there’s more than one madman here. Anyway, get that statement over as soon as possible.”
“Where is Blair, by the way?”
“He’d checked out for the night. I’ll wake him up when we get back.”
♦
Hamish retrieved his snowshoes from the kitchen and strapped them on outside. But when he reached the road, he was able to take them off again. The road had been ploughed and gritted again. The cities of the south might wait in vain for a snowplough or gritter, but the little roads of Sutherland were well serviced. He trudged down to the police station.
When he switched on the kitchen light, nothing happened. He fished out an old hurricane lamp and lit it Lugs woke up and demanded food. Hamish gave him a dog biscuit instead. Lugs was getting too fat and had been fed already.
He felt bone-weary, but he knew that with a power cut, his computer wouldn’t work and he would have to go to Strathbane, after all.
∨ Death of a Bore ∧
13
In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stagecoach.
—Oliver Goldsmith
Hamish peered up at the blazing stars as he drove along. The winds of Sutherland were like stage curtains, whipping back the clouds to reveal another scene. A small pale blue moon cast an eerie light over the white landscape.
When he crested a rise and saw Strathbane below him, it had been sanitised by snow, lights twinkling through the whiteness like a Christmas card. His parents had told him that Strathbane had once been a prosperous fishing port but that a combination of highland laziness and brutal European Union fishing quota had sent it into decline. Then a new motorway from the south had been built, allowing drugs and villains to travel north in comfort and set up new markets.
He parked outside police headquarters and went up to the detectives’ room. Jimmy hailed him. “They’re keeping him under suicide watch for the night until the police psychiatrist interviews him in the morning. Why did you decide to come?”
Hamish told him about the power cut. “Well, grab a computer and start typing,” said Jimmy.
As he typed his report, Hamish could only marvel that his obsession with that script had paid off. He had once been on a case where a scriptwriter had been murdered by an author. What made some writers and would-be writers so dangerously vain and unstable? Maybe they were like actors, always craving attention, not quite grown up.
Hamish just wanted to get the report finished and get home. It was a relief to think that Superintendent Daviot would be safely home in bed, and by the time he turned up for work in the morning, Blair would be ready and waiting to take the credit.
He did not know that at that very moment Blair was closeted upstairs in the super’s office, talking to Daviot.
“This is good work,” Daviot was saying, “and it was right of you to wake me up.”
Blair thought quickly. It would be a tortuous business trying to hide the fact that it was Macbeth who had solved the two murders. But on the other hand, if Macbeth got the kudos, Daviot would once more want him transferred to Strathbane. Before Macbeth could be promoted, there would be assessments and exams. Macbeth would hate that. And with any luck, while it was all going on, the police station at Lochdubh would be closed down.
“As a matter of fact,” said Blair with the oily smile he always had on his face when talking to his superior, “it was Macbeth that solved the whole thing.”
He outlined how Hamish had found the original script and had leapt to the conclusion that the murderer was Paul Gibson, about Elspeth being held hostage, and about her rescue.
“So I was thinking, sir, that Macbeth is wasted up in that village. We could do with him here.”
Daviot studied Blair’s face. He knew that Blair loathed Hamish and that his suggestion was prompted by spite. But Blair was the type of officer that Daviot felt comfortable with. He was always polite and a good member of the Freemasons. One always knew where one was with men like Blair, whereas the maverick Macbeth was another thing entirely.
“Where is Macbeth?” he asked.
Daviot’s secretary, Helen, came in at that moment with a tray of coffee. Women’s liberation had passed Daviot by, and he had summoned Helen to headquarters and when she arrived ordered her to make coffee.
“I believe Hamish Macbeth is in the detectives’ room, sir.”
“Good, good. Send him up. I’ll have a word in private with him.”
♦
Hamish had just finished his report when he got the summons to go upstairs. His heart was in his boots. Blair had just come in and shouted, “Grand work, Macbeth. I told the super how well you’d done.”
Daviot surveyed Hamish when he entered. Hamish needed a shave, red bristles were showing on his chin, his shirt was dirty at the collar, and he smelled of burning rubber.
“Sit down, Hamish,” said Daviot. “Helen, a cup of coffee for the officer.”
Helen, who disliked Hamish, slammed a cup of coffee down in front of him so that some of the liquid spilled into the saucer.
When Helen had left, Daviot said, “You have done very well.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Mr. Blair agrees with me that talents such as yours are wasted in a highland village.”
“With all respect, sir, I was able to solve these murders because I was able to use my own initiative. If I were in Strathbane, I would just be another policeman and would have to take orders. I might have to spend a lot of my time on traffic duty.” And Blair would see to that, thought Hamish gloomily.
Daviot leaned forward. “But if you were to become a detective, that would be another matter.”
“If I left Lochdubh and you closed down me police station, that would leave Cnothan and Lochdubh without a police officer. Who would then check on the frail and elderly in the outlying crofts?”
“I am sure that could all be done from here.”
“I don’t think the press would like it either,” pursued Hamish. “The first time an old lady up on the moors has a fall in her croft house and is left lying there for twenty-four hours, the papers would take you to the cleaners…sir.”
Daviot frowned. He knew Hamish had friends in the press, not to mention that girlfriend of his who worked for the Bugle.
“And,” went on Hamish eagerly, “do you know of anyone in Strathbane who ever wants to go north of here even on their off days? They go down to Inverness or Perth.”
“Detective Chief Inspector Heather Meikle is anxious to get you transferred to Inverness.”
“Sir, if that were to happen, I would end up suing the chief inspector for sexual harassment.”
“Well, let’s leave that alone for the moment,” said Daviot quickly. He knew of Heather’s man-eating reputation. “There is going to be a great deal of press coverage over this.”
“I’m not good at that at all,” said Hamish. “The press always likes a senior officer to brief them.”
Daviot visibly brightened. He loved being on television.
Helen put her head round the door. “Sir, the press are in the front hall and demanding a statement. Mr. Blair suggested that PC Macbeth might like to address them.”