“And did the Trents arrive?”
“Just after you left. They’re in room fourteen.”
“And did you – ”
“For heffen’s sake,” said Hamish Macbeth loudly and crossly. “Leave the girl be, Priscilla. She’s not on duty now.”
“Then the pair of you should get on very well,” snapped Priscilla. “When were you last on duty, Hamish? And don’t give me that crap about investigating in Drim. You just wanted to get out of house-hunting.”
Peter fidgeted behind Priscilla. Things were not working out as he had planned. He was on the outside while, it appeared, two attractive women were competing for the attentions of Hamish.
“Priscilla, we’ll talk about this later,” said Hamish. “Now can I get on wi’ my dinner?”
Priscilla turned on her heel and marched out. She suddenly remembered the seer’s prediction, turned firmly to Peter and shook his hand heartily. “All the very best in Drim,” said Priscilla briskly and walked away quickly to her own car, which was parked on the waterfront.
Despite his uneasiness that he had gone too far, Hamish enjoyed Sophy’s company and her amusing tales of working in hotels in Glasgow and Perth. When he ran her back to the hotel and said good night to her, he debated with himself whether to call on Priscilla and then decided against it. He was the injured party.
♦
Morning brought regret. Panic began to set in. He forgot bossy and managing Priscilla and only remembered his dear Watson of previous cases. There was a knock at the kitchen door. He opened it and saw Priscilla standing there. She smiled. She held out her hand. She said, “Truce?” He gathered her in his arms and kissed her until his toes curled.
She finally released herself. “You’re not getting off that easily, Hamish Macbeth. Come along. We’re going to look at that house.”
And at that moment, Hamish would have agreed to anything. They drove off in Priscilla’s car, Towser in the back seat, fitful sunlight chasing across the moors, and the wind heavy with the sweet scent of heather. Hamish did not speak about Sophy, and Priscilla did not mention Peter.
His sunny mood lasted until they turned in at the short drive leading to the house. It was a Victorian villa, neat and compact It looked down on the bleak high-rises of Strathbane.
“I kept the key,” said Priscilla gaily. “Just wait until you see this.”
Hamish followed her in, with Towser at his heels. He stood in the hall and looked around. On one side lay a living-room, on the other a dining-room. “Come in here and look at the view,” carolled Priscilla from the living-room.
He went in and stood with his hands in his pockets. He gave a little shiver. “This is an evil house.”
Priscilla swung round from the window and stared. “Stop fooling about, Hamish.”
“I am not being funny, Priscilla. This is a sad house. Something bad happened here.”
“You mean someone died here?” Priscilla looked at him scornfully, her hands on her hips. “Of course they did. The place is at least a hundred years old. Come and see the kitchen.”
“I’ll wait for you outside,” said Hamish.
She darted to the doorway and blocked his exit.
“Listen to me, I am not falling for that bad-vibes Highland nonsense. This is a perfectly good house.”
“Who is the owner?”
“I don’t know. I don’t care either. Just look at the kitchen, Hamish. That’ll make you change your mind.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
She walked through to the back, where a large square kitchen lay. It was airy and light, with a primrose-coloured Aga cooker and plenty of cupboards and shelves. Hamish looked about and then said, “I’ve had enough. I’ve got to get outside.”
Priscilla followed him out, her face tight with anger. “You are determined not to move to Strathbane. You are determined to stay in Lochdubh and rot.”
“Humour me,” he said. “You’ve got to take that key back to the estate agent, right? Just let me ask who lived here.”
She walked in silence to the car and he got in beside her. Towser, sensing the bad atmosphere, crouched down on the back seat.
“Why did you buy that cooker for the police station if you had no intention of living there?” asked Hamish at last.
The correct answer to that was that somewhere deep inside, Priscilla was perfectly sure she would never budge Hamish Macbeth, but she would not admit that even to herself.
“You need one,” she said curtly.
Strathbane swallowed them up with its mean streets and perpetual air of failure, a sort of inner city transferred to the north of Scotland. Oily water heaved in the harbour and the rusting hulk of a ship listed on its side. Sea-gulls screamed mournfully. Priscilla parked in a multi-storey and they walked down to Strathbane’s new shopping precinct called The Highlander’s Welcome. It was cobbled in round fake cobbles of an orange colour and set about with plastic palms whose leaves clattered mournfully in the damp breeze from the sea. Small round women in the Strathbane uniform of track suit and jogging trousers struggled with plastic bags of shopping.
Men stood in groups, smoking moodily and occasionally spitting viciously at nothing in particular.
Priscilla led the way into the estate agent’s. A young man rushed forward. “Everything satisfactory?” he asked, taking the key from Priscilla.
“We’re still making up our minds,” said Priscilla.
“Who owns it?” asked Hamish.
“That’s confidential,” said the young man quickly, fearing that Hamish meant to go behind his back and make some sort of private deal. “I have another property here, Miss Halburton-Smythe.” The young man pulled out a folder. While Priscilla bent her head over it, Hamish’s eyes ranged around the office and fell on a typist at a desk by the window. She looked up and Hamish winked at her. She grinned and patted her hair.
“Maybe another day,” said Priscilla, straightening up.
Once outside, Hamish said, “I’ll stay on in Strathbane for a bit.”
“What? How are you going to get home?”
“I’ll hitch a lift.”
“You’re determined to stay here and ferret about looking for non-existent criminals who once lived in that house.” Priscilla was becoming angry. “Suit yourself. You should wake up to the fact that you are hell-bent on refusing promotion.”
“Maybe it iss you yourself who should wake up to that fact.”
Priscilla strode off without a backward look and Hamish looked after her miserably. He then remembered Towser was still in the car. But Priscilla would take Towser home.
He hung about the estate agent’s, discreetly hidden by a plastic palm until he saw the typist emerging for her lunch. He hurried overand bumped into her as if by accident. “Sorry,” said Hamish, and then affected surprise. “Aren’t you that pretty girl I saw in the estate agent’s a while ago?”
Her pasty face turned up to his and she giggled. “That’s me.”
“I’m Hamish Macbeth.”
“Tracey McWhirter,” she said.
“Tell you what, Tracey, I wass chust on my way to that coffee shop for a sandwich or something. Care to join me?”
She giggled again but nodded and fell into step beside him, tottering on her high heels. After he had bought her a coffee and a Highlandman’s Lunch, a wad of dry French bread with limp lettuce and smoked mackerel, Hamish said, “I was up at that house this morning.” He hoped she had not heard him asking the young man for the name of the owner. “That was George Emming’s place, wasn’t it?”
“Oh, no,” said Tracey guilelessly. She paused to brush crumbs from her T–shirt, which was surprisingly sophisticated in that it bore no legend at all. “That’s Mr. Hendry, the teacher’s, place.”
“Oh, him that teaches English at Strathbane High?”
“Chemistry.”
“Ah.”