He asked more questions but could not get any relevant information. He left Hugh in the pub and made his way to Jock’s flat. He went quietly up the stairs. Outside the flat door, he took out a little bunch of skeleton keys and got to work on the lock until it sprang open.
It was a spacious Victorian flat with high ceilings. In the living room, there was a long bench filled with paints and brushes. The air smelted strongly of turpentine. There was a battered roll-top desk against one wall. He sat down in a chair in front of it, pulled on gloves, and began to go through any papers he could find. There were the usual bank statements and gas and electricity bills. The trouble was, thought Hamish, in these days of texting and e·mails, people did not often send personal letters through the post.
He pulled out drawer after drawer. And then in the bottom one, he found an envelope with a Brighton postmark.
He gently opened it and slid out the letter from inside.
He heard a slight noise behind him and made to swing round, but he was too late.
A heavy blow struck him on the back of his head, and he tumbled off the chair on to the floor, fighting with the blackness that was trying to engulf him, hearing soft footsteps moving rapidly away.
♦
When he could sit up, he felt terribly sick. He heaved himself to his feet, made his way groggily to the bathroom, and was violendy ill. He splashed his face with cold water and gingerly felt his head. There was a large lump. He couldn’t call the police because he wasn’t supposed to be in the flat – or in Glasgow, for that matter.
When he went back to the desk, it was to find that the letter with the Brighton postmark was gone.
He went out of the flat, carefully locking the door behind him. He caught a taxi in the Great Western Road and asked to be taken to the nearest hospital. It was only in books, reflected Hamish, that the brave detective soldiered on. He knew he’d better get checked out.
He waited in the outpatients’ until a doctor was free to examine him. He was told that, yes, as he knew, he had suffered a slight concussion, but the skin wasn’t broken. “Been in a fight?” asked the doctor.
“No. Slipped in the bathroom and banged my head on the bath,” lied Hamish.
“You’ll need to take it easy,” said the doctor. “We’ll just take a few X-rays and send the results on to your own doctor.”
Hamish knew that the mills of the National Health Service ground exceedingly slowly and that the results would end up on Dr. Brodie’s desk in about a month’s time.
He still felt sick when he left the hospital, and the light hurt his eyes. He peered at his watch. Just time to catch the plane. If only he could think clearly. Someone knew he was in Glasgow, and that someone must have been following him.
On the bus to the airport, despite the heat of the day, he felt cold and began to shiver. I’ll go straight to bed when I get home, he promised himself.
He was queuing up at the gate for the Inverness plane when a voice behind him said, “It’s never Hamish Macbeth!”
Hamish turned round. “Harry Wilson?” he asked.
“The same.”
“I haven’t seen you in ages,” said Hamish. “Where are you off to?”
“Back home to Lairg for a break.”
“What are you doing now?”
“Same as you, in a way. I’m a police diver.”
“I thought you were going to be a football star.”
“Played for Rangers for a bit but really wasn’t up to the mark. Took the police exams. I got interested in diving after I joined the Glasgow Diving Club.”
They had their tickets checked, then walked together to board the plane. “Are you all right?” asked Harry. “You’re as white as a sheet.”
“I was investigating something. You’re not to tell anyone, mind. I wasn’t supposed to be in Glasgow as far as the police were concerned. Someone crept up on me and bashed me on the head.”
“You’d better go to your doctor when you get back to Lochdubh. What happened exactly?”
As they sat together on the plane, Hamish told him about breaking into Jock’s flat.
“Someone must have been following you,” said Harry. “Who knew you were going to Glasgow?”
“Only my boss, Jimmy Anderson.”
“I thought that one would have died of liver failure by now, and what do you mean your boss? Isn’t that old scunner Blair still in charge?”
“He’s out of commission. Took a tumble down some steps and broke his arm and his collarbone.”
“Couldn’t happen to a nicer fellow.”
♦
They parted at Inverness airport, Harry promising to visit Hamish in Lochdubh before he went back to Glasgow.
Hamish drove carefully homewards. The light hurt his eyes even more, and he put on sunglasses.
At the police station, he found the cat and dog were out. He had phoned Angela before he had left and had asked her to open the door for them at certain times during the day.
He still felt ill, so he went out again and walked to Dr. Brodie’s. Angela opened the door to him, her thin face sharpening in concern. “You look dreadful, Hamish.”
“Someone hit me on the head. I had it looked at in Glasgow, but I’d feel better if your man could take a look as well.”
“I’ll get him. Sit down, Hamish.”
Hamish sat down wearily at the kitchen table. Three of Angelas cats leapt on the table among the dirty dishes and laptop and stared at him with unblinking eyes.
Dr. Brodie bustled in. “I’ll take you to the surgery, Hamish, and examine you.”
In the surgery, he gently examined Hamish’s head. “How did this happen?”
“Someone crept up behind me in Glasgow and socked me on the head.”
“There’s a big lump, but the skin isn’t broken.”
“The hospital in Glasgow is sending on the X-rays.”
“Good. I’ll need to keep a close eye on you, Hamish. You may experience dizziness, headaches, and weakness in the legs. I’m surprised the hospital didn’t keep you in for observation.”
“I had to get away. I wasn’t supposed to be in Glasgow, and I didn’t want the police to know I had been detecting on their patch.”
“Go home and get some sleep. Phone headquarters and tell them you are taking time off. Come back tomorrow, and I’ll have another look at you.”
Hamish left the surgery to find Lugs and Sonsie waiting for him on the road outside.
“Come on home,” he said. “I’m going to get something to eat and go to bed.”
At the police station, he phoned Jimmy and told him about the letter with the Brighton postmark and then about being knocked down.
“I’ll get straight up to see that sister, Caro. She may have known Jock before.”
“I should go with you.”
“You’d better rest. At least take tomorrow off. I’ll see you in the morning and let you know how I get on.”
Hamish fed the dog and cat. Then he heated up a can of soup for himself but only ate half of it. To his horror, tears began to run down his cheeks and he started shivering again.
He heated up two hot-water bottles and put them in his bed. He took a hot shower and then, followed by his pets, climbed wearily into bed. His last waking thought was that there should be some woman around to look after him.
♦
Caro opened the door to Jimmy Anderson and a policewoman. “What now?” she asked in alarm.
“I think we’d better go inside,” said Jimmy.
The policewoman sat in a chair in the corner of the room and took out her notebook.
“Now, Miss Garrard,” began Jimmy, “you knew Jock Fleming before, didn’t you?”
“Of course not.”
“We have proof that you knew him in Brighton,” lied Jimmy.
Her eyes dilated with fright, and then she said, “I didn’t want to say anything about it. It would look so suspicious.”