She was wearing a pretty, floaty sort of chiffon dress under her coat along with very thick make-up. Hamish was wearing a Savile Row suit which he had picked up in a thrift shop. The last time he had worn it was the last time he had met Priscilla for dinner. He had a sudden sharp longing to speak to her again.
As he had expected, they were too early by an hour so they went into the hotel bar. “Better keep to mineral water,” cautioned Angela, “because there’ll be drinks at dinner and I want all my wits about me.” She took a sheaf of notes out of her handbag and began to study them, her lips moving.
“What’s that?” asked Hamish.
“It’s my acceptance speech.”
“Angela! You’re taking all this too seriously.”
“What would you know? You haven’t a single ambitious bone in your body.”
“Aye, and I like it that way.” Hamish suddenly wished the evening would be over.
At last, they went in for dinner. Angela and Hamish were seated at one of the round tables with her publisher, Henry Satherwaite, a thin female poet called Jemima Thirsk and her husband, and two Haggart executives and their wives.
The dinner was at last over and the chairman of Haggart took the podium. He droned on about the virtue of the firm’s cakes and then got down to the business of the evening.
“We have five nominees: Jemima Thirsk for her poems, It Happened One Sunday, Simon Swallow for The Bastard of Bridgetown, Angela Brodie for The Bovary Factor, Sean Belfast for The End of Ulster, and Harriet Wilson for Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.
“Our distinguished panel of experts have chosen the prizewinner.” With maddening slowness he opened an envelope. “Get on with it!” muttered Angela, polishing off her after-dinner brandy in one gulp.
“The winner is—Harriet Wilson for Tales from My Cherokee Grandmother.”
Angela turned chalk white. Her publisher patted her hand. “Better luck next year,” he whispered.
Harriet Wilson was a large woman wearing a beaded gown and with two feathers stuck in her elaborately dressed coils of grey hair. She fell over getting up to the platform, and it took two men to hoist her to her feet.
She blinked myopically at the audience and then vomited violently.
“They’re always drunks,” said Hamish.
“Why do you say that?” asked Henry.
“Because it’s always a Cherokee grandmother. Never the Sioux or the Mohawk or the Cree. Very fertile lady that grandmother.”
“You mean, she might have made the whole thing up?”
“Maybe,” said Hamish. “Oh, Angela, don’t take on so.” For Angela was crying quietly. He put an arm round her and gave her a hug.
“Did you see that?” hissed Nessie Currie, gazing avidly at the television set. “I knew it. That Hamish Macbeth should be locked up. No woman is safe from him. And there’s poor Dr. Brodie at death’s door. Shame!”
“Shame,” echoed Jessie.
“No wonder herself is crying. It’s the shame o’ adultery.”
“Adultery,” murmured Jessie.
Dr. Brodie was lying on the sofa, feeling like death. His ancient television had broken down right before the screening of the Haggart awards. He heard knocking at the kitchen door but felt too ill to get up so he shouted weakly, “Come in. It isn’t locked.”
And in came some of the villagers bearing cakes and whisky and flowers and home remedies, which they put down on the kitchen table. Mrs. Wellington, who had been banished from her duties as doctor-sitter, nonetheless came in and looked sympathetically at Dr. Brodie.
“Did she win?” he whispered.
“I’m afraid not.”
“What’s everyone doing in the kitchen?”
“Folk are bringing you some things to make you feel better. Have you… er… read your wife’s book?”
“Not yet. Angela doesn’t like me reading her stuff until it’s published. That’s an idea. There’s a copy over there. Hand it to me.”
“Well, now, I think you should rest your eyes. I’ll just switch on the telly.”
“It’s broken down.”
“You need to be firm with these machines.” Mrs. Wellington brought her fist down on the top of the machine, and it flickered into life. “There! That’ll soothe you.” She handed him the remote control.
Mrs. Wellington tiptoed out. Dr. Brodie looked at a programme where two men were beheading a third. He switched it off. He was feeling marginally better. Maybe now was the time to read his wife’s book.
Angela rallied for the book signing. To Hamish’s relief, she seemed to be signing quite a lot of books. He bought one himself and retreated to a quiet corner. As he read, his eyebrows practically vanished up into his thick flaming red hair. He skimmed through the book rapidly. It was the story of a bored doctor’s wife in a highland village who embarks on a steamy affair with the village policeman. The sex scenes were graphic. Either Angela had a vivid imagination or Dr. Brodie was more of a stud than anyone could have guessed. He blushed all over. Angela’s ambition had made her blind to the effect her book would have on Lochdubh. Hamish could imagine the gossip spreading across the whole of Sutherland.
Henry Satherwaite came up to him. “Good book, eh? Are you from Lochdubh?”
“I am.”
“What do you do there?”
“I’m the village policeman.”
Henry grinned.
“No, I am not Angela’s lover, and this book is going to cause me one shed load of trouble,” said Hamish. “I…” He suddenly saw a familiar face. Simon Swallow, the author, was signing books, and sitting beside him, opening books for him to sign, was the receptionist from Scots Entertainment. She saw him and got to her feet. Hamish tried to catch her but she vanished into the ladies’ toilet. He waited outside, then opened the door and went in. Two women at the hand basins let out a screech of protest. Hamish flashed his warrant card before checking the cubicles. Then he noticed a blast of cold air. The room was L-shaped. He turned the corner. A window was standing open. He leaned out. There was a fire escape to the car park. As he watched, a black BMW went roaring off.
He returned to the signing and picked up a copy of Simon Swallow’s book. There was now only one woman in front of him. When it was his turn, Simon asked, “Who’s it to?”
Hamish showed his warrant card. “Who was that girl who was opening the books for you?”
“Oh, Sonia. Where’s she gone and what do you want with her?”
“Just a wee chat.”
“She’s probably gone to the toilet.”
“Sonia took one look at me and ran off and escaped out the toilet window. How do you know her?”
“We met up in a pub this lunchtime and she offered tae come along.”
Hamish retreated to a corner of the room and phoned John McFee. “Concentrate on a firm called Scots Entertainment,” he said. “There’s something fishy about it.”
“Will do.”
“And get back to me as soon as possible.”
He waited until Angela had signed her last book. “They’ve booked rooms here for us for the night,” said Angela, “but I must get home.”
“All right. But I’ll drive.”
In the car, as he drove off out of Edinburgh and took the long road north, Hamish said, “Angela, I don’t want to add to your distress, but have you any idea what’s waiting for us in Lochdubh? You wrote about a doctor’s wife having an affair with a policeman. You’re going to be damned as the whore of Lochdubh.”
“But they all know me!” wailed Angela. “They cannot possibly think—”
“Oh, yes they can. Oh, dinnae greet. You must have cried a bucketful already,” said Hamish heartlessly.
Angela snivelled, blew her nose, and said, “I must have gone mad. What’s it like, Hamish, to have no ambition whatsoever?”