Nessie went into the kitchen and turned on the radio. She was getting rather deaf, and whistles and static sounded round the kitchen as she tried to find a programme with some music. At last, the music of the Polonaise from Eugene Onegin blasted round the kitchen.
The kettle had just boiled when Nessie felt something pressed against the side of her neck and a man’s voice said, “This is a gun. I have tied the other old bird up. One squeak out of you and I’ll kill you both. Make me something to eat.”
Nessie, a small figure wrapped in a fluffy pink dressing gown, with old-fashioned steel rollers in her white hair, said, “Bacon and eggs?”
“That’ll do. I’ve cut the phone line so don’t be getting any ideas. I’m going back into your living room and if you make a wrong move, I will shoot your friend.”
Nessie felt a dead calm. She took down a frying pan, opened the fridge, took out eggs and bacon, and then began to cook them. As if moving in a dream, she took down another pan and filled it up with bleach. She put two teabags into a teapot and then poured the boiling bleach in on top of them.
She slipped a sharp knife into her dressing gown pocket. When everything was ready, she loaded up a large tray and carried it into the living room. Jessie stared at her, her eyes wide and blank with shock. She had tape over her mouth. Her ankles were bound with her dressing gown cord.
Nessie put the tray down on the table by the window. Prosser looked a sinister figure. His face was blacked, and his clothes were filthy from sleeping rough.
He waved the pistol. “You sit down while I eat,” he snarled. “Pour the tea.”
Nessie poured him a large mug of tea. She sat down, back erect, and watched him in silence.
“Cut the bacon,” he snarled. He planned to eat with one hand while keeping the revolver levelled on her. Nessie cut the bacon into small pieces. She had covered the already salty bacon in salt.
He took a large gulp of tea, and his eyes bulged. He gasped and wretched, clutching his throat. Jessie seized the pistol. But she knew nothing about guns and did not know how to release the safety catch. Prosser staggered to the door. All he wanted to do was get away. He crashed out into the night.
Nessie took out her knife and freed her sister. “We’ve got to ring the bell,” she said. “We’ve got to get the men back.”
“Mmm,” said Jessie, her mouth still covered by duct tape.
Up on the moors, Hamish and the searching men heard the bell. Cursing, Hamish sprinted down towards the village, his dog and cat at his heels.
In the church, in the corner where the bell rope of the single bell hung down, stood Nessie Currie, pulling on the rope for all she was worth.
When he tapped her on the shoulder, she screamed until she saw who it was.
The villagers were all crowding back into the church. Matthew Campbell, editor of the Highland Times, listened as Nessie told her story. Then, led by Hamish, they all ran out again to look for Prosser. Hamish stopped on the way and roused Jimmy. From Nessie’s description, he said, it looked as if Prosser had come back to exact revenge.
All that night, the villagers, reinforced by police, searched all around while a police helicopter buzzed overhead.
The rain had cleared and the first Sutherland frost glittered on the heather. Lying buried in the heather, Prosser felt deadly ill. He would need to get back to Edinburgh, where he knew a doctor who owed him a favour. They would have roadblocks up all over the place. But he had to move or he would freeze to death. He daren’t even go back to the bothie where he had hidden his rifle and other equipment.
He rose stiffly. His mouth was burning. A sheer desire to stay alive drove him up to his feet.
By a long circuitous route he arrived at the back of the Tommel Castle Hotel. The kitchen door was only a simple Yale lock, and he sprang it easily. He took a pencil torch out of his pocket and flashed it around the kitchen. He opened the fridge, took out a bottle of milk, and gulped as much down as he could. He ate dry bread and then drank more milk. Then he made his way quietly up the back stairs. He found an empty hotel room, the door standing open. He went in and shut and locked the door, first hanging a DO NOT DISTURB sign outside. Prosser stripped off and showered, tumbled into bed, and fell fast asleep.
When he awoke next morning, he decided he needed a change of clothes. He heard voices in the corridor outside as the guests went down for breakfast. He heard the people in the room next door, talking loudly as they walked away. Wrapped in a towelling robe he had found in the bathroom, he waited until the corridor was silent. He saw a maid coming along with clean sheets and positioned himself outside the door next to his.
“I’m afraid I’ve lost my key,” he said. He winked at her. “I was just… er… visiting a friend.” The Polish maid giggled. She was new and had just come on duty. She smiled and opened the door with her passkey. She went to the door of the room he had spent the night in.
“Just leave her,” said Prosser. “She wants to sleep until late.”
He went quickly into the room she had opened for him. He opened drawers and took out clean underwear and put it on. It was a little bit large for him. He then opened the wardrobe and selected moleskin trousers, a hunting jacket, and a plaid shirt. He grinned. There was even a deerstalker. He crammed it down on his head.
Then he saw that the man had left his wallet on the bedside table. He snatched it up. He coolly walked out and down into reception and out into the car park. He got into the nearest car, one the hotel kept for guests, planning to hotwire it, but grinned when he saw the keys in the ignition.
By producing the driving licence he had found in the stolen wallet, he sailed through the roadblock. It was an old license, the kind that did not have a photograph. Once the euphoria of escape left him, he realised he was running a temperature and felt very sick indeed. And yet he knew he would have to ditch the car and steal another. Any minute now, the hunt would be on for whoever had stolen the hotel guest’s wallet and clothes along with one of the hotel cars.
He took the cash out of the wallet and then threw the wallet out of the window. He still had plenty of cash of his own but, he reflected, it was as well to have as much as he could get. He stopped in Dingwall. He felt dizzy and faint. He bought a change of clothes and changed in a public toilet. Leaving the clothes he had stolen in the car, he hotwired a different vehicle he found parked in a far corner where he hoped it would be out of sight of any CCTV cameras.
He then drove to Inverness airport, where he left the car. He had one fake credit card left. He did not want to use it but knew he would have to risk it. Paying an air ticket with cash might start alarm bells ringing.
When he arrived at Edinburgh airport, he felt dizzy with fever. Summoning all his energies, he took a cab to the doctor’s, burning with fever and thoughts of revenge.
Chapter Twelve
And come he slow, or come he fast,
It is but Death who comes at last.
—Sir Walter Scott
A month of frantic searching for Prosser followed. Blair, beside himself with rage, tried to blame Hamish Macbeth, and Hamish Macbeth only, for having let the man get away.
The Currie sisters were not much good as witnesses. Lauded in the press as heroines, they told a story that became ever more elaborate, while their description of Prosser grew more weird and wonderful.
There was a police guard on Milly’s house for two weeks until impatient Daviot called it off, saying it was a waste of police time.
Despite frequent visits from Ailsa and other villagers, Milly felt very alone. The long, dark winter nights where one hardly ever saw the sun added to her terror. She felt she should get away but on the other hand, where would she find such loyal friends as she had in Drim?