“Daviot’ll go mad,” said Hamish.
“I’ll fix him. I’ll just use your office.” She went into the police station office and slammed the door.
“Whisky?” demanded Jimmy.
“Aye, I could do with a dram.” Hamish lifted down the bottle and put three glasses on the table.
He was just pouring when Elspeth reappeared looking triumphant. “It’s all fixed.”
“How did you manage it?”
“Daviot is to appear with you. He loves the idea of being on television. He said he would be glad to let the matter be settled. He will give Angela all the help she needs provided she doesn’t sue them for Blair’s behaviour.”
“So where’s the filming to take place?”
“The Tommel Castle Hotel.”
“And how do you get me and the Brodies up there without the other press crowding in?”
“Daviot is sending a police car to take the Brodies to a private room at the hotel. I’ll have my crew already in there and set up. The press will follow, but they’ll be locked out.”
“Then they’ll all write spoiling stories.”
“Daviot’s bringing lawyers to have a word with them all afterwards. They’ll need to be careful.”
“So how do we get there?”
“Out the window, Hamish. I’ve got a four-wheel drive parked up in the fields. Also, you wanted press pressure on the police to solve the murders. Here’s your chance.”
Elspeth was glad she had brought a make-up artist with her because Angela looked a wreck. Her flyaway hair was even more dishevelled and her face was white and drawn. Dr. Brodie had not quite recovered from his attack of the norovirus, and he looked weak and shaky.
Only Daviot looked happy, surrendering to the ministrations of the make-up artist and getting his silver hair brushed till it shone.
“I think you should go first, Angela,” said Elspeth. “Tell the folks about being a writer and how you used the local colour and your experiences of being a doctor’s wife.”
“Must I?” asked Angela in a low voice.
“This scandal has to be stopped,” said Elspeth. “Oh, I phoned your publisher. Sales of your books are good.”
“They are?”
“Right up there.”
Angela came over well. Heartened by the news of her sales, protective of her husband, she described how the plot had come about. She held her husband’s hand throughout.
Daviot then spoke and said that Hamish Macbeth was a valued officer and a model of good behaviour. When he had finished, he added magnanimously, “Would you like to say a few words, Mr. Macbeth?”
Hamish had more than a few words to say. After describing the Brodies as old and valued friends, he then said, “I would like to make an appeal to the public.”
“Is this about the murders?” asked Elspeth.
“Yes.” Hamish described everything he had found out from the murder of Captain Davenport right up to the attack on him and Angela. He linked the murders of Philomena Davenport, Betty Close, and the prostitute. He appealed for anyone with news about Scots Entertainment to come forward and anyone who also had information about the missing John Dean.
Elspeth wound up the interviews, holding up a copy of Angela’s book and urging people to buy it while stocks lasted.
Mr. Johnson, the manager, then served sandwiches and drinks. “I will just make a statement to the press outside,” said Daviot, and he left the room followed by his lawyers.
Lochdubh had watched the whole thing on television with great feelings of disappointment. There was no doubting the sincerity of Hamish or the Brodies. Mutterings about the presents given to Dr. Brodie spread around the village. Archie Maclean, the fisherman, was ordered to go to the doctor’s and take back the cod he had given him. Timid Archie lied and said it had been eaten.
And Police Sergeant Hamish Macbeth returned wearily to his police station and prayed that something would break so that the shadow of murder could leave. He decided that Strathbane were not going to inflict another policeman on him, as Tolly, his former constable, had taken early retirement. He had already sent Tolly’s belongings to him. He dragged out several items of furniture but then realised he was very tired and left them sitting on his living room floor.
Chapter Nine
And almost every one when age,
Disease, or sorrows strike him,
Inclines to think there is a God,
Or someone very like him.
—Arthur Hugh Clough
Impatient for news, the following day Hamish decided to visit John McFee and find out what was taking him so long.
He drove over to Craskie. The day was so sunny and fine that somehow it seemed to intensify his worries. The normally heaving Atlantic, where some of the old people still believed the blue men rode the waves, was docile and temporarily tamed. The mountains of Sutherland soared up majestically to a clear blue sky. Even the normally wheeling, screeching gulls seemed to be silent. It was as if the whole of nature had paused to enjoy the beauty of this rare summer’s day.
Hamish knocked at John’s door and waited. He was just about to knock again when he heard the sound of shuffling footsteps approaching from the other side. The door creaked open and Hamish bit back an exclamation of dismay. John appeared to have dwindled in size. His thick white hair had gone and he was as bald as a coot.
“What’s wrong with ye?” demanded Hamish, his voice sharp with anxiety.
“Lung cancer,” said John. “Come ben.”
He stood aside. Hamish walked into the small cluttered living room. His eyes ranged over the place. He could not see a computer. John slumped in an armchair by the fireplace.
“How long have you known?” asked Hamish.
“Months,” said John wearily. “The chemo didn’t work. I’ve come home to die.”
“How long have you got?”
“Weeks, maybe months if I’m lucky.” There was an oxygen tank beside his chair. John fumbled with it and attached tubes to his nose.
“Why didn’t you tell me, man? I don’t see a computer.”
“Fact is, Hamish, I never learned how to use a computer and my old associates, them that aren’t dead, couldn’t help me.”
“But the wasted time? You should have said something. Why didn’t you?”
“I did try my best. It took my mind off my troubles. I felt important. I told the neighbours I was working for the police.”
“Are you getting home help?”
“Yes, I’ve got a carer. She’s off at the shops and the doctor calls regularly.”
There was silence. The oxygen machine sent out a rhythmic clicking sound. John lay back in his chair and closed his eyes.
Hamish curbed his temper. He could hardly shout about the wasted time, not when the poor man was dying.
“Never mind,” he said. “I’ll be off.”
John opened his eyes and said faintly, “Do you think there is a God?”
“Maybe,” said Hamish, but once outside he muttered to himself, “Not right now, I don’t.”
Hamish drove to police headquarters in Strathbane, confident that at least he would not run into Blair as, last heard, the man had still been suspended. Jimmy was not around so Hamish went to Jimmy’s favourite pub and found the detective sitting at a table in the corner.
“Shouldn’t you be working?” snapped Hamish, who was still furious over the time John McFee had wasted.
“I’m on my break,” said Jimmy mildly. “Sit down and stop looming over me.”
“Any news on Scots Entertainment?”
“It’s controlled by a company registered in the Ukraine. That’s as far as we’ve got. How’s your expert getting on?”